Lost and Found
by bigfatgoth
Summary: The story of a lost boy with a lost soul. A different prequel to the Thunderbirds series. Who is this boy? Please R&R. Sorry I have left this for a long time I did a teaching degree!
1. A Happy Home

Lost and Found

* * *

"Mama?"

"Yes, Alon?"

"Can I go out and play?"

Mrs. Markowitz smiled. It was a fairly unusual request for her nine-year-old son to ask to go out and play.  
"Well, have you done all your chores?" she asked him, leaning down from loading the dishwasher.  
"Yes, Mama!" said the little boy.  
"Are you going to play with Miguel?" she asked.

"No, I need to collect some plants for my experiments."  
Della Markowitz sighed. She had been trying all summer long to get Alon to play with the other kids in their quiet cul-de-sac, but he remained insular, preferring to read, study, or do experiments. He was very polite, and well spoken, but would not go out of his way to be sociable.  
"Okay, Alon, you may go out. But be back by seven; your father's coming home tonight."  
"Yes, Mama." Alon ran out into the front garden and the door slammed behind him. Della carried on with loading the dishwasher, switched it on, and started dinner.

* * *

Michael Markowitz came home a little late that evening. He dropped his suitcase in the hall, and came into the kitchen to hug his wife.

"Good to see you, honey!" he said as he embraced her.

"Your late!" she said, lovingly. "Better get washed up, there are only 20 minutes until sundown!"

"Okay, dear. Where's Alon?" he asked as he walked towards the bathroom.

"Basement!" said Della. "With his experiments."  
"Oh, great!" said Michael. He was very impressed by his young son's scientific ability. He himself was an engineer working out of Detroit. He lived in a small city apartment during the week, returning to his rural home in time for sundown on a Friday night. This was easy in the summer, but in the winter the sun sets much earlier, so for the rest of the week he worked long hours to make up the time. When Alon was born they had all lived in the city, but the atmospheric pollution, while having no effect on an average person, aggravated little Alon's asthma. So they had made the decision to move, and be separate some of the time. It suited them well.

* * *

Michael washed and changed quickly, and yelled down to Alon in the basement.

"Alon?"

"Yes?"

"Shabbos!"

"Coming, Father!"

There was a clattering sound as Alon ran up the stairs, and hugged Michael.

"Go and wash, Son. And turn the lights on!"  
"Okay, Aba," said the little boy, and kissed his father's cheek before running off doing his duties.

* * *

Alon returned and stood in silence next to his father at the table while his mother lit two long, white candles. She waved her hands over the flames, and quietly recited a blessing.

"_Baruch ata……"_

She took her hands away, and stood for a few seconds reflecting.  
"Okay, my boys! Who's hungry?"  
"I am!" said Alon, and sat down at the end of the table. Michael pushed his chair in. Della brought in a large tureen, some bowls of vegetables, and three large, shiny, plaited loaves of bread. She placed some onto Alon's plate.

"Would you like some grape juice?" asked Della.

"Yes, please!" said Alon, and when it had been poured slurped at the juice while his spectacles made a chinking sound when they hit the glass.

* * *

They are heartily, and it was getting dark by the time they had finished.  
"See! I turned all of the lights on, Aba!" sang Alon.

"Well done, Son! Be sure not to turn any of them off!" replied Michael.

"I won't!" said Alon happily.

"Okay, Alon, time to get your pyjamas on!"

"Okay, Father!" he said, chirpily and did as he was asked.

* * *

"That was delicious, darling," said Michael to his wife.  
"I make it every Friday," said Della.

"Yes, but every week it gets better!" said Michael.

"Mike?"

"I'm still a little worried about Alon."  
"How so?"  
"Just that he doesn't get enough interaction with other kids."  
"He goes to school!"  
"Yes, but there are only five of them in that special class, and they are much like him. I've sat in the classroom for half a day. They all just get on with their work, and don't talk to each other."

"But he's a great kid!"

"I know, Mike. He's every mother's dream, I just think that he might improve socially if he had more opportunities to interact with people."  
"He has us."  
"We don't count."  
"I guess you're right, honey. But what do we do about it?"

Della took a brown envelope from the kitchen cabinet and slid out the contents. She handed a stack of leaflets to Michael. He read quietly for a few minutes.

"Summer camp? Alon? I don't think he go for that!" said Michael, sceptically.

"It's a science-focussed one. Look, they do data collection, fieldwork, experiments, reports, scientific reading, he'd love it!"

"The age limit is 12."

"I already asked them. They said since he is already two years ahead in school, they would take him."

"I still don't know if this is such a good idea."  
"He'll love it."  
Michael turned the leaflet over. "It's in California!" he said. "You want to send him to California?"

"Well, it's in association with Berkeley, and the dry air would be good for his allergies. It might even tan him a little. He's very pale."  
"You're not going to budge on this, are you?"

"No. Plus, it's only for 6 weeks."  
"Well, I guess you've talked me round."  
"Thanks, Mike." Della kissed him.

* * *

"Bedtime, Alon!" called Della up the stairs.  
"Okay, Mama!" called Alon. Della smiled. She knew that if she went to check on him in an hour he would be reading under the covers with a torch.

"I'm coming up there!" she said, and trotted up.

There was a gasp from Alon's bedroom as he hastily shoved the evidence of his study plans into his top bedside drawer.

"What is it this time?" asked Della.

Alon looked sheepish. "Principles of Entomology."

"Come on, into bed now, Alon."  
Alon obliged, and Della went to his bedside table. The lamp was housed in a metal tube, and she twisted it to cover the light completely, without physically turning it off.

"Goodnight, Alon."  
"Goodnight. Mama."

Della kissed him on the head, and then Alon removed his glasses. Della took them and placed them on the bedside cabinet next to the lamp. He would have to able to find them again; he was so extremely short-sighted that unless he knew where they were, he would be unlikely to find them.

* * *

Della went down to the lounge and sat down on the sofa next to Michael.  
"Did you tell him?" he asked.

"No. I'll do it tomorrow. We'll have a whole lot of time to discuss it then, and I can work out how to sell it to him!"

Michael smiled. "Just emphasise the science part. He'll go for it."


	2. Bullies

Chapter 2

"Alon? Alon?" called Della outside her son's room. When he didn't answer, she went inside and found him still asleep, face down in a book. She gently pulled it out from under his head.  
"Principles of Entomology, huh?" she said. She shook Alon gently.  
"Time for shul, Alon."

"Mmmm!" Alon yawned and stretched. "Morning, Ima."  
"Your father is nearly ready! Come on, get dressed. Go!"

"Okay, Mama." Alon sat up, and took his glasses off to rub at his eyes. Their was a deep indentation in his face where he had leaned against them in the book.

"I'll put your breakfast in a bowl."

"Thanks, Mama."

* * *

Della left Alon getting dressed, and went downstairs. Michael was eating breakfast and looking at a magazine. He nodded to Della, not wanting to talk with his mouth full. Della took a ladle of milk pudding from the slow cooker and set it on the table with a spoon for Alon.

Michael finished what he was eating. "We'll be a little late back today."  
"Yes?" said Della, fixing her own breakfast.

"I have a meeting for the Children's Hospital charity. Shouldn't be more than an hour, but you know how these things can run on."  
"Yes, I do."  
"Do you want to come to shul, Della? It'd be nice to see you there."  
"No, it's okay. I'm not in the mood. Besides, I have to read some more about this camp idea."

"Oh, I need to go back to work early this weekend."  
"Why?"

"It's the project. We're at a critical stage. We're pretty sure the competition is spying on us, so the sooner we develop this, the better," said Michael.

"Surely they don't know what you're making?" asked Della.

"They don't know about the actual engines, they just know that something's going on! Plus, they won't find much, it's all in here!" Michael pointed to his head.

Della smiled.

"Oh, and I forgot to tell you Alon's Hebrew class is cancelled tomorrow. Rabbi Aryeh is sick.""Nothing serious, I hope.""I don't think so. I'm sure they'll tell us today.""Let me know. And give him and his wife our best.""Of course."

"Hey, Alon!" said Della as her son entered the room, still looking tired. "Come on, breakfast is on the table, you have ten minutes before you have to go."  
"Okay."

* * *

Alon ate hastily, while Michael clipped a kippah on to his head. It was a new one, with different chemical structures all over it. When he had finished, he ran upstairs to clean his teeth, and ran down again. He stood on the last step while his mother looked up and down at him.  
"You've forgotten something, honey."  
"What, Mama?"  
"You think you can go to shul like that?"

Alon looked at himself. "Yes," he said, confidently.

His mother smiled. "Shoes, Alon?"

Alon laughed and ran to his room, returning shod. He and his father set out to walk to shul together.

* * *

This left Della home alone. She had nothing against shul, but she had been brought up in a much more secular household than Michael. She felt that attending was a bit hypocritical, and without a working knowledge of Hebrew, she could not understand much of the service. But she was keen for Alon to have the opportunity to embrace both the secular and religious, and make his own choices. She already expected he had more of a scientific bent; how could he not with his father an engineer and his mother a geneticist? She headed to the office to read some research papers she had just got.

* * *

"Hi, honey!" said Michael as he closed the front door after himself and Alon. "We're home!"

Alon ran straight up to his room to change. Della followed him.

"Alon?"

"Yes, Ima?" He sat down on his bed to give his mother his full attention.

"How would you like to do some work with Berkeley?"

"The university?"

"Yes."

"I'd like that a lot!"

"You get to do experiments, fieldwork, all kinds of things! For six whole weeks!"

"Really? Wow!"

"And you get to talk to lots of really great academics!"

"When can we go?" said Alon, excited.

"You'd go on you own, Alon."  
"You wouldn't be going?"

"No, Alon. But there would be lots of other kids there!"  
"Do I know them?"  
"No," said Della. "But you'd be making friends in no time!"

"I don't know, Mama," said Alon, now looking sad.

Michael appeared in the doorway. "You'll have a great time, kid! I went to camp when I was about your age. I'm still friends with some of the people I met there!"

"Really, Aba?"

"Really. And these kids will all really be into science as well. You'll fit right in!"  
"Do you think so?" asked Alon, with his wide smile returning.

"I do. Just think, one more week of school, and you could be on your way to camp!"

"Yay!" said Alon, jumping up to give his father a high five.

"Come on, kid, let's get some lunch." Michael took his son downstairs in a fireman's lift. Della smiled and followed.

* * *

Back at school on Monday, Alon took some books out of his locker. It was difficult for him to reach the top ones, so his was down on the floor. He threw the books into his backpack, and strapped it on. It was almost as large as him. He went to walk to his classroom.

"Hey, there goes the pipsqueak!" said an older boy. "Look! He's so little!" he laughed.

"How very observant of you!" said Alon, sardonically.

"Oh, that's a big word! You're cleverer than you look, pipsqueak!" he said.

"Better than looking cleverer than you are!" said Alon.

The boy frowned, and ripped off Alon's glasses, throwing them on the floor. The bell went and the boy left.

Alon fumbled around on the floor for his glasses. He eventually found them, but was now about ten minutes late. He sighed. It was difficult being in Junior High so young, but he took the bullying in his stride. He had his mother and father, and didn't really care what other people thought of him.

* * *

Alon finally turned up to class. He tiptoed around the edge and took his seat. His teacher smiled; she knew that he would not be late without good reason. Supawat Assavathorn, an older boy, leaned over to his desk and whispered. "Page 252!" she said. Alon took out his book and turned to the correct page. It was calculus; one of his favourite areas of mathematics. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, happily.

* * *

When he arrived home, he threw his bag down in the hall, and went to hug his mother as usual.

"Good day, Son?" she asked, hugging him back.

"Ima!" he said. "I really want to go to camp! I can study calculus all day and nobody will think I'm weird!"

Della thought to herself. She did not want him to go to camp just in order to be accepted; she wanted him to feel secure all the time. But she felt that tit would be good for him, and as long as he was on board, did not want to change his mind.

"Great, Alon! You'll have to start thinking about what to take with you."  
Alon paused. "I'll write a list on my computer!" he said, and ran off upstairs.


	3. Off to Camp

Chapter 3

On Friday, Alon was eating lunch in the playground, while reading a book on electronic engineering. He saw some of his most hated bullies coming towards him. He carefully folded his lunch back into the box and set it on the ground.

One of the boys pushed him on the chest against the wall.

"Give us your lunch money!"

"You saw me eating my packed lunch! Why would I have any lunch money?" said Alon.

"All Jews have money. You're a Jew, aren't you?" said Drew, the largest boy.

"Yeah, look how thick those glasses are!" said one of his cronies. "And the stupid little hat!"

"Well clearly your reasoning is flawed, because I don't have any!" said Alon. He was afraid, but confident in his manner.

The boys rifled through his pockets, and were angry to find no money.

"I told you!" said Alon, and laughed. "You're the stupidest people I ever met!"

One of the boys punched him in the lip, but Alon carried on smiling, boldly.  
Drew posed as if to punch him again, but seeing that Alon did not recoil in fear, he simply punched air, and he and his comrades walked away.

* * *

Alon felt victorious, and beamed. His father would be proud of him; he won the fight without violence. His lip stung a little, but it was nothing on how good he felt at defeating three boys twice his size. He bent down to get his lunch and saw that his shirt was covered in blood. He went to the bathroom and washed up, then put his sweater on over the shirt. He thought it looked alright, and so headed back to class.

* * *

Mrs. Murray looked concerned when she came back to the classroom after lunch. "I have some bad news, children."

The class looked on attentively.

"Supawat was attacked earlier by some eighth graders. He has gone to hospital."  
Alon looked around nervously- he had not even noticed that Supawat was absent. "Who was it?" he asked.  
"It was Drew Casey," said Mrs. Murray. "He's been excluded."

"Is he going to be okay?" asked another child.  
"Yes, but he won't be back at school for a few weeks. He has a punctured lung."  
Alon hung his head and tried to get on with his work.

* * *

When he arrived home that evening, he found his father home early.

"You're back, Dad!" he said, and ran to hug him.

"Well, since you're leaving on Sunday, I thought I'd try and spend a little extra time with my boy!" said Michael. When the hug broke, Michael looked closely at Alon.

"What happened to your face, Son?" There was a large bruise around Alon's split lip.

Alon looked sheepish. "One of the older boys hit me."

"Are you okay, Alon?" he said, lovingly, meaning physically and mentally.

"I'm fine, Aba." Alon was crying, softly.  
"Tell me what happened."  
"Well, they asked for my lunch money, but I didn't have any, and they said I must have money because I'm a Jew, and I said they were stupid, and he hit me, but I didn't cry, so he left me alone!"

"Did it hurt?" asked Michael.

"No."

"So why are you so upset?"  
"Supawat got hurt by the same boy later on. If I had told on him, maybe Supawat wouldn't have been hurt!"

"It's alright, Alon. It's easy to see how we should have acted with hindsight. But in general if someone is willing to hurt you, they're probably willing to hurt others, so it is best to tell someone."  
"Okay, Aba."

"You have a strong sense of justice, Son; of right and wrong. You need to listen to it."  
"Yes, Aba. I'm sorry."  
"It's alright, son. Go get ready for shabbos."

Alon giggled and kissed his father, then ran upstairs to change.

* * *

After sundown on Saturday night, Alon had gone to bed, and Della was doing laundry. She came across Alon's bloodstained shirt."Suppose one of the other kids picks on him on camp? They're all older than him!" she said.  
"He'll be fine. In fact, I'm even less worried now than before he took that punch. He knows how to handle himself," said Michael.  
"Do you think so?"  
"Yes, and this was your idea! You're not having second thoughts, are you?" asked Michael.

"No," said Della. "No, I'm just musing."

"He's going to be fine, honey. You'll see."

"I know," said Della, and hugged her husband. "Don't you wish we had more?"  
"All the time, honey. But that isn't what God had lined up for us."

"I know." She started rolling socks.

* * *

The next day Della checked through Alon's suitcase, even though she knew he would have planned everything meticulously. She sometimes wished he needed her a little more.

"Okay, Alon, do you have your allergy pills?"  
"Check!"

"Inhalers?"  
"Check!"

"Sunblock and hat?"

"Check!"

"Books and stationery?"  
"Check!"

"Laptop?"  
"Check!"

"Spare glasses!"

"Check!"

"What about-"  
"I packed everything, Mama. Look, I made a list!"

He showed Della a piece of paper, printed from the computer, with a list of things to pack, and his spidery scrawled additions at the bottom. Every item was ticked.  
"Well done, Alon. I guess you're good to go!"

"Yes, Mama!"

Michael came into Alon's room. "Wow, I can see you're ready!"

"I'm going to summer camp, Aba!" said Alon, and started bouncing around the room.

Michael took a small box out of his pocket, and gave it to Alon. "This is for you."  
Alon eagerly took it, and read the wording on the front. "Alon ben Michael," he read, and ran his fingers across it. Inside was a book, the same size and colour as the box. "A siddur! Thanks, Aba!"

"That's alright, Son." He accepted a hug around his waist from Alon.

Della looked on admiringly as Alon placed the siddur very carefully into his suitcase.  
"Come on then, kiddo!" said Michael. "Let's go!"

He took his son downstairs by piggy-back, while Della followed with Alon's suitcase. They got into the car and drove to the airport.

* * *

Della and Michael followed closely behind Alon as he made his way into check-in. As he queued, he overheard a conversation behind him.

"You're not afraid of flying, are you?" said a tall man with 'Camp Staff' on his yellow T-shirt to a small boy standing in front of him in a yellow cap.

"No. Statistically speaking, air travel is the safest form of transportation," said the boy. Alon turned around and grinned at his parents.

Alon checked in and was asked to report to the man in the yellow shirt. There was now a woman with him, also uniformed.  
"Hello," she said, much too cheerfully. "And what's your name?"

"Alon. Alon Markowitz," said Alon.

"Okay, then, you're on my list! We're going to wait for the others and then go through to the departure lounge. You're not afraid of flying, are you?" she asked.

Alon smiled at the other boy, who chuckled back. "No. Statistically speaking, flying is the safest form of travel!" said Alon.

"Yes, it is!" said the women. "I'm Angela, welcome to Camp Scientia!" She patted Alon on the head. She turned to welcome another boy.

"Hello, I'm Adrian," said the boy who had smiled at Alon.  
"I'm Alon," he replied, shaking Adrian's hand.

Della and Michael smiled at each other on seeing Alon make friends so quickly.  
"Okay, Alon. We'll leave you to it," said Michael, and put his hand on his son's shoulder.

"Okay, Ima, Aba, I'll email every day!" said Alon.

"Bye, Alon," said Della.

They turned to leave, and walked out holding hands.

* * *

They drove home in silence, but smiling. Even though he had only been gone a few minutes, Alon had left a vacuum in their lives. Michael put his hand on his wife's, which was hovering over the handbrake. 


	4. Happy Camper

Chapter 4

When all the campers had arrived at the airport, they were shepherded to the plane. It was a small jet, with 28 seats. As Alon boarded, he looked around at the other children. They were all shapes, sizes and colours, but he was the youngest. There were 10 boys, 13 girls, a flight attendant and four camp counsellors. Alon took a seat next to Adrian, who beckoned to him.

"Come on, you'll be able to get a good view of the takeoff!" said Adrian. "We should probably finish our introductions! I'm Adrian Bisset. I'm 11, and I'm from Lansing."

Alon smiled. "I'm Alon Markowitz, I'm 9 years old, and I'm from Rutland."

"That's cool!" said Adrian. "I think we're the youngest here! They don't normally take under-12s."

Alon nodded, and Adrian pointed out of the window as the plane lifted off.

"Wow!" said Alon. "I've never been up in a plane before!" He pulled up the peak of his baseball cap to get a better view.

"Never?" said Adrian.  
"No. Is that strange?"  
"No, I don't think so. I only went on one two years ago to see my dad in Churchill when he was working away," said Adrian.

"In Manitoba?" asked Alon.

"Yes. He's a marine biologist. He studies Beluga whales."

"That's really interesting," said Alon. "What about your mother?"  
"She died when I was two."  
"I'm sorry."  
"It's okay. What about your mom and dad?"  
"My mom is a geneticist and my dad is an engineer."  
"Not Michael Markowitz?" said Adrian.

"Yes," said Alon, lowering his eyebrows, wondering why anyone would know who his father was. "Do you know him?" he asked.

"No, I've just heard about his work."  
"Really?"  
"Yes. Apparently he has come up with a revolutionary new engine design, and nobody knows what it is!"  
Alon swallowed. He knew what his father had been working on, but knew he was not supposed to talk about it. The responsibility was making him nervous, and he hoped that Adrian wouldn't notice, or press him on it.

"You've never talked about it?" asked Adrian.

"No," said Alon, trying to sound nonchalant.  
"You've never seen him on the TV?"

"No, We don't have a TV."

"Oh."

Alon sighed quietly; that had seemed to put Adrian off.

"How long will it take us to get to California, Alon?" asked Adrian.

Alon pulled a notebook out of his pocket and turned to a page covered in pencil scrawl.

"Oh!" said Adrian. "Well, we need to pass the time somehow!"

Alon went into his pocket and pulled out a tiny book. It was entitled 'Elements of Quantum Theory.' Adrian smiled at Alon, and they took turns to test each other on the content.

* * *

It was evening when they arrived in California, and the children were bussed over to the forest near Mount Shasta as the sun was setting. Alon smiled, and thought of his parents. He was already missing them, but took comfort in the fact that they too had seen this sunset. It was almost as if they had sent it to him. The mountain looked beautiful and majestic in the fading light.

The forest opened up ahead of the bus to reveal a massive clearing, surrounded on all sides by mature forest and a lake. There were several large log buildings, and the lights within them made them look warm and comforting. A few of the buildings had very large windows, and complex chimney arrangements. Alon beamed; they were laboratories. There was a fire going in a central courtyard, and it picked out the shadows of totem poles surrounding it. Even as the bus drew up, Alon could hear laughter from inside the buildings. He smiled at Adrian, who smiled back.

One of the counsellors walked up to the front of the bus to direct operations.

"Okay, campers!" said Angela, in a voice so cheerful that Alon and Adrian giggled. "We're going to pick up our bags, and then go to the dorms, where you get a place to sleep, then we go and join the other campers in the dining hall for supper! Then we'll hand out uniforms, and have some campfire time before bed! Okay!" she said. She did not get the enthusiastic response she had sought, so she nodded to Ben, another counsellor, who walked less cheerfully off the bus, and asked the children to disembark. The bus driver was still dragging cases out of the trunk, and pulling them into a long line down the side of the bus. Alon and Adrian were quite near the front, so got off early and found their bags with ease. They waited for the others to gather.

Angela shot Ben an annoyed look, and then smiled widely. "Okay, boys, follow Ben; girls, follow me!" she said, and they were away.

* * *

The dorms were not far away. "Okay!" said another, this time male, over-keen counsellor. There was a long corridor, with bunkrooms leading off it, and four or eight bunks to a room. Some were already taken, with clothes and personal effects strewn everywhere. "I'm Darren!" He moved his arms back and forth as he spoke, excitedly. "In here we have Abernathy, Bisset, Donovan and Heinz, and in here, we have Merrell, Markowitz, Onwukwe, Singh, Teller, and Umiaktorvik."

Adrian and Alon looked at each other. Adrian spoke. "Darren, if I may, we feel it would be better that we were in the same dorm."  
Darren looked confused. "But we have already put everything in place for you!" he said.  
"You have simply organised us by alphabet. I do not believe that the cohesion of the group would be in any way affected by us organising ourselves," said Adrian, confidently.

"Does anyone disagree?" Alon addressed the group.

Everyone shook their heads.  
"But," said Darren. But the children ignored him, and simply neatly divided themselves into the rooms. Darren was about to protest further when he resigned himself to failure. He had many things to do tonight, and while he objected to the room changes on principle, he decided to let it slide.

* * *

Alon got the bottom bunk, with Adrian on top. They lay on their beds for a few minutes. They were comfortable and roomy. Adrian leaned over the side to talk to Alon.

"This is great, isn't it!" he said.

"Sure is!" said Alon. "I can't wait until tomorrow!"

They were eventually ushered into the dining room.

* * *

There were many more children eating supper. Alon thought there must be around 120, but they did not keep still long enough for him to count. There was a table of counsellors too, and others were standing against the walls, watching the children.

Alon grabbed a tray behind Adrian and queued for supper. There was a young, blonde woman handing out a stew with a ladle. Adrian took his, and some potatoes and carrots, and went to pick a dessert. Alon pored over the dish in front him. "What is it?" he asked.

"Jamaican stew," said the woman, smiling sweetly.

"What's in it?" asked Alon.

"Garlic, sugar, onion, pork,-"

"I can't have that."  
"What about vegetarian?" she asked.

Alon smiled wryly and was about to speak, when the woman smiled again.  
"Are you Alon?"

He nodded.

The woman turned around to an oven, and produced a moulded metal plate with compartments of roast chicken, vegetables and gravy. Alon beamed, and the woman gestured him on with her head. He picked a bowl of fruit for dessert and went to sit down with Adrian.

* * *

The tables were long with benches either side. Alon and Adrian were at the end of one, with other boys along the rest. Alon noted how most of the tables were single sex, without any encouragement from the counsellors. He narrowed his eyes and smiled. He then tuned into to the conversation on the table.

"Yeah. Tomorrow, they'll show us round the labs. They have everything; instruments, computers, equipment,"  
"The only they don't have is a cyclotron!"

"Were you here last year?"  
"Yeah. And the year before. I did a project on BOC-DOC. It was fantastic. I'm carrying on with it this year."  
"What are you going to do, Abidemi?"

"Lasers. Definitely lasers. But I'm not sure about the specifics."  
"It's okay, your research tutor will help you come up with something."  
"You get a research tutor?" asked Alon.

"Yes, everyone gets one. From Berkeley. They're grad students, and there are three or four to each one."  
"Wow!" said Alon.

"What do you want to do, er, -"  
"Alon. I'm not sure. I like calculus and quantum physics," said Alon.

"Yes - I'm Luke, by the way – but you can do that for your theoretical. You can do a practical too."

Alon grinned. "I like organic chemistry, particularly fuel research. And nuclear power!"

Luke smiled. "Don't let it run away with you, kid! You don't have to decide until next week. We have a lot of classes, tours and taster sessions this week."  
"Wow!" said Alon.

* * *

After supper, they headed to the main assembly hall for uniform issue. They were each given a blue sweatshirt, T-shirt, shorts, tracksuit bottoms, white trainers, white socks, a blue lab coat, safety shoes, safety overspecs, a pair of black trousers, a white shirt, a black blazer and a blue tie. Though Alon's had been specially ordered as he was smaller than most of the other children, the pile dwarfed him as he carried it back to his dorm. Adrian walked next to him with his hand on top of the pile to steady it.

Exhausted, they put their clothes away, and drifted off to sleep. Alon's fatigue at the journey and meeting all the new people managed to take over from his excitement about being at camp. It was only now, for the first time since arriving, he though of his mother and father. He held the siddur that his father had given his, and recited the shema prayer quietly to himself, from memory.  
"Goodnight Ima. Goodnight, Aba."


	5. Research

Chapter 5

Alon stood at the front of the group of boys gathered in the chemistry lab. The sleeves on his white coat were too long, so he tucked them inside the sleeves of his blue sweatshirt. The boys and girls were listening attentively to an instructor.

"Hello, Group 4. I'm Dr. Vaughan, but you can call me Steve. This is the chemistry lab. It's divided into four sections; organic; inorganic; physical and analytical. You'll each get the opportunity to work in each section before you decide on your final project. We have grad students working in each area, and a member of academic staff overseeing it. Say hi, grad students!" said Steve.

"Hi," they said, waving a little lethargically.

Alon smiled to Adrian, also at the front of the group.

Steve clapped his hands. "Okay, troops! Here we have a list. Find your name, go to your area. We'll stay in these groups to do the rotations. Questions? No? Okay, let's go!"

There was chattering as everyone consulted the list and made their way to their area. Alon was with Adrian, and they had got organic chemistry for their first rotation. They were each allocated a number locker full of glassware and equipment, and given an induction into the lab procedures.

"Remember, any questions, no matter how trivial, ask. Everyone understand?"  
"Yes, Rachael," replied the students, slowly and in unison. It made Rachael smile; at heart, they were still kids.

"So, today, we're going to be extracting capsaicin from chillies. The experiment is outlined on your sheets, but if you can think of anything that might improve it, do say so!"

The eager students went about their work.

* * *

At the end of the day, Alon sat down for supper next to Adrian.

"That was the best thing ever!" he said.

"Yeah! I can't wait for more!" said Adrian.

* * *

Five days later, and the students had finished their lab inductions in physics, chemistry and biology, and classroom introductions in maths, engineering and computer science. They were now being taken to the meteorology lab.

"Okay, campers, this is our own met lab!" said Gavin, one of the academics. Group 4 followed him around slowly as he pointed out things of interest in the lab.  
"This is the main computer, Cray 1001. All the systems in here have access to it. We are tapped in to the Berkeley research satellite station for the duration of the camp, so we can look at the weather patterns, and weather history, of the whole world!"

The air was filled with tiny gasps. Gavin headed over to one of the workstations and logged in. He called up a map of North America.  
"Here was can see sunny skies over the US, and cloud over Canada. You want to get more technical that that? Have a seat!"

Alon sat at one of the terminals by the window, and began to explore the menu system. Meteorology was not really one of his interests, but he found it fascinating in this forum. He watch the live action as cloud fronts drifted over continents, mesmerised.

* * *

On Monday, Alon and Adrian were lying on the floor of their dorm, propped up on their elbows, filling in their research choice forms. Alon peered over at Adrian's submission. Adrian smiled at him.

"I'm asking for a project on charge carriers for physics, and AI in computer science for theoretical. What about you?" said Adrian.

"I can't decide!" said Alon. "I want to do nuclear propulsion, and fuel for my practical, but I can't decide between meteorology and advanced mathematics for my theoretical."

"I thought mathematics was your thing.""It is, but I have found this meteorology induction really fascinating. I don't know which way to go."  
"There's plenty of maths involved in the met lab! Maybe that would be the best of both worlds, Alon."  
"I think you may be right!" said Alon, and scribbled away at his submission form. He also summarised it for his email home.

* * *

Three weeks later, Alon was eating supper with Adrian, and some other members of Group 4.

"How's the project going, Adrian?" asked Luke.

"Pretty good!" replied Adrian, confidently.

"You have results?" said Luke, looking at the notebook poking out of Adrian's breast pocket.

"Maybe!" said Adrian, pushing the book down into the pocket. "I know about intellectual property!" he said.

Alon looked over at him. It made him nervous, because he knew of the lengths that his father had to go to to maintain the secrecy of his projects. Mostly he did it by keeping all of his information in his head. He had the same kind of photographic memory as Alon.

"Ah, come on!" said Luke. "I'm not going to steal it, am I?"  
"I don't know!" said Adrian, sarcastically. "Maybe we could do a deal!"

"Okay!" said Luke. "I have 10 Hershey bars. I'll trade you."  
"Tempting, tempting. Uh, no!" said Adrian. He pretended to look smug, but ended up laughing with the rest of the table.

* * *

They headed out for songs around the campfire. They sung in different languages, in close harmony, and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. It was not something they normally did at home, and the camp was keen to try and make sure that they had an opportunity to enjoy life as kids.

* * *

Next day, there was basketball or rounders in the morning. Alon and Adrian chose rounders, and though they were on the losing side, had a good time before heading to lunch and then to labs. Alon felt good; it was nice to be physically tired to help concentration on mental tasks. 


	6. Storm Brewing

Chapter 6

"Hello, Ima, Aba! How are you?" asked Alon in an excited, eager tone.

"We're fine, Son!" The beaming faces of Alon's parents filled the video screen.

"How's it going?" asked Michael.

"I'm really enjoying it still! Especially my meteorology project. It's so interesting! I have had college professors look at my model calculations, and they said they would expect less from their grad students!"  
"That's great, Alon!" said Della.

"And we had a presentation fair! We had to do a talk on our project with questions from the audience, and then produce a poster. We had all the posters in a big hall, and we had to stand there in our blazer suits while people asked us about them!"  
"That sounds like fun!" smiled Michael.

"Thank you for giving me this opportunity, Mama, and Dad."  
"That's alright, boy. We're glad you're enjoying yourself."

"I am, but I still miss you!"

"Don't worry. This time next week, you'll be home again," said Della.

"I know, Ima," said Alon.

"How's your fuels project coming along, kiddo?" asked Michael.

"Excellent, Dad! I have almost finished. I've come up with some great results. Rachael, my organic chemistry docent, says I shouldn't make a poster on it. She says I should keep the final data to myself, because it might be worth something."  
"Really?" said Michael. "I was going to ask, anyway, we should collaborate on something when you get home."  
"Is it-"

"Yes, that's it! You be sure to keep thorough records, Alon," said Michael. He knew that his son would, being the consummate professional when it came to science, but he felt that he wanted to say something fatherly.

"Yessir," said Alon.

Alon talked for a while longer in the same chirpy voice. Della glowed with joy and listened patiently as Alon recounted this week's stories about his friends and activities. He was becoming much more sociable and outgoing. She liked how Alon talked about Adrian as if he were a much loved older brother.

"Maybe we could have Adrian over when you get home," said Della.

"Wow, Mama! That would be great!" said Alon, excitedly.

"We'd love to have him!" said Michael.

"Thanks, Dad!" Alon looked over his shoulder, out of his parent's field of view on the videophone.

"I have to go now. I'm sorry."  
"That's okay, Alon."  
"I'll call again soon, and I'll email tonight."  
"Yallabye, Alon!" said Michael.

"I love you!" said Alon. The screen turned black as Alon signed off.

* * *

Michael gently took his wife's shoulders. She looked as though she were about to cry.  
"Hey, don't worry. This is the best thing that ever happened to Alon!" said Michael.

"I know, but I miss him. It's very lonely in the house when you are at work, with Alon away. I still see him as my little boy!" said Della, with a little sadness.

"He will always be your little boy. I think he is going to come back from camp with a new maturity, but he will always need us, Della," soothed Michael.

"I know, but it's hard to accept when he is such a genius."  
"I know," said Michael, smiling. "Come on, honey, I'll make us a coffee," said Michael, and Della followed him into the kitchen.

* * *

Alon was at his workstation early the next morning. He was confused by some of his results. He had been tracking a storm system forming over the North Atlantic. Alon had produced a complex mathematical model to predict the progress of weather systems using the powerful mainframe computer. All of the weather predictions he had from other stations showed that the storm would move slightly west and a little south, reaching it's most severe off the coast of Greenland. Shipping and local populations had been warned, but such weather was common in the area, and those who used the waters regularly were well equipped to deal with the hostile conditions. But Alon was confused. His model showed the storm to grow much more severe, and move further south and west, making landfall over Nova Scotia. He tapped on the desk and frowned; it made no sense. No matter how often he recalculated and reapplied his formulae, he got the same answer. He believed that his model was right, and the storm should progress as he had predicted. But there was a clear and marked difference between his results and those of experienced, dedicated, professional meteorologists. Alon felt that he must be wrong, and spent the next four hours checking and rechecking his data.

* * *

Finally, he sought help. "Gavin? Can you take a look at this for me?" he asked one of the academics.

"Sure thing, Alon. What's the problem?" Gavin stood leaning over Alon with his hand on the back of his chair while he explained the situation. "Hmm," said Gavin. "Have you tried a different vector coefficient?"  
"I've tried everything!" said Alon. "But I get the same answer. I am sure this is what the storm is going to do, Gavin. The model works perfectly for 30 other systems I have watched in the last three weeks. I don't understand why it won't work for this!" said Alon, annoyed.

Gavin brought up a window on the screen that displayed the machine code that Alon had used to input his formulae. For a few minutes he muttered to himself while he checked the code.

"It seems fine to me!" said Gavin. "Let me just have a look, can I?"  
"Please!" said Alon, and surrendered his seat. Now he stood behind Gaving, shifting from foot to foot.

Gavin thought to himself. The more he checked Alon's findings, the more he was convinced by them. He checked the other models used to give the weather movements that were being reported on the news, and their formulae also made sense; except that their model and Alon's had very different results. Gavin scratched his head. He was beginning to worry. If Alon was right, there could be serious consequences. The storm would make land over Canada and the USA, causing untold devastation. But could a nine year-old be right? Gavin resolved to make an important call. Better that he would look a fool for getting it wrong than be inadvertently responsible for many thousands of deaths.

Gavin turned back to Alon. "I'm sure it's nothing," he said. "But I'll pass it on to the met office. Maybe someone there can find out where you're going wrong."

Alon eyed him a little wryly, but then smiled.

Gavin was relieved. He did not want to let Alon know about the possible consequences of his discovery. He felt that was a lot to put on the shoulders of a young boy. "Why don't you go and get some lunch? And I think there's a rounders game afterwards!"  
"But I could-"  
"Come one, there isn't much you can do to this. Come back later on today, and I might have something to tell you!" said Gavin.

"You're right," said Alon. "See you later!" he said cheerfully, and skipped off.

* * *

Gavin's face was grave as he picked up the telephone. He called the Central Meteorological Office. He told them the situation, but they were very abrupt.

"You say some kid has come up with a different route for the storm, so we must be wrong?"  
"No, I'm saying you should take a look at his work," said Gavin, impatiently. "Just take a look. I could email it over."  
"We don't have time to be looking at every drawing every kid does!"

"This isn't a drawing. This kid is a genius. He wrote his own software to do this. I'm telling you, there's something in it."

"We have done the work ourselves, and we know what we're doing!" said the man on the end of the line, sharply. "And I have work to do now!"  
"Fine, I'll talk to a radio station!" said Gavin.

"Oh, no you don't!" barked the man. "If panic breaks out, I'll know where to find you. Doing something damn stupid like that could cause real trouble. Now shut your yap!"

The man hung up, and Gavin swore as he held the phone away from his ear. He went to see his supervisor.


	7. Talking to Walls

Chapter 7

Gavin advised Alon to go out for sports in the afternoon, convincing him that he would deal with the project problems, and that there was little Alon could do with it for the time being. Gavin went to see his supervisor, Paul Durant, a professor visiting Berkeley from McGill University in Montréal.

"Paul, I think we might have a problem," said Gavin.  
"What sort of problem?" asked Paul.

Gavin explained the situation.

"Show me!" said Paul, gravely, and followed Gavin back to the met lab.

Gavin ran the simulation using 3 of the mainframe computer terminals. On one, he showed the storm prediction using Alon's calculations. On another, he showed the simulation according to the Met Office formulae, and on the third, he showed a time-lapse image of the development of the storm over the last 24 hours.

Professor Durant spent twenty minutes each at the first two terminals, and a few moments at the time-lapse terminal. When he had finished, he looked up at Gavin.  
"So, who's right?" said Gavin. He was hoping it was not Alon, but Paul's face told him to expect bad news.

"Alon is right."  
"So what did the Met Office do wrong?"

"Nothing, but Alon's model takes into account neighbouring, and recent weather events in the area. The Met Office model does not. Two weeks ago there was a severe storm at sea in the area. Two container ships were sunk."  
"That must have been some storm!" said Gavin, shaking his head.

"Indeed. A ship can normally take any wave shorter than the ship is long, as long as it takes it on the bow. So either the waves were bigger than the ships, ¼ mile high, or they were so thick and fast that the ships couldn't turn into them. Either way, if it is worse than that, and looking at the time-lapse video, it is, and it hits land, the devastation could be unimaginable."

"Oh, God!" said Gavin, and slapped his head with his hand.

"We have to tell someone!" said Paul.

"I told you, I did! They told me where to go!"

"You called the Met Office," said Paul, reminding himself. His thoughts were all over the place.

"Of course. Yes!" said gavin excitedly.

Paul shook his head. "The Centre Meteorologique Canadien will listen."

"What makes you so sure?" said Gavin.

"Because they don't think they are always right!" said Paul, with a wink, and punched in the number on the videophone. "Strange," he said. "I only get voice." He picked up the old-fashioned hand-held receiver and dialled again. "Bonjour!" he said. "Sandrine DuVivier, s'il vous plaît."

Gavin listened intently as Paul waited for various connections, and spoke with, it seemed, various different people. Unfortunately, Gavin spoke no French, and was relieved when Paul suddenly switched to English.

"Sandrine?"

"How are you, Paul?"

"We've no time for pleasantries, I'm afraid!" said Paul. "We have a situation!"

"What?" Sandrine sensed the urgency in his voice.

"I'm emailing you something now!" said Paul, and clamped the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he tapped away at the keyboard. "Should be there in a few seconds."

Sandrine did not speak for some minutes; she had obviously received it and was worried. "You know," she began, and paused for a while before resuming her sentence. "We've already had reports of string winds over Maine."  
"So we're in for a rough ride?" said Paul.

"That's a bit of an understatement. If you're right, Paul, we need to act fast to avoid total devastation."

"I didn't predict this!" said Paul.

"Who did?" asked Sandrine.

"Alon Markowitz, a nine-year old boy."

"Well, thank God for him!" said Sandrine. "I have to go, Paul. We have to implement the emergency plan as soon as possible."  
"What about the USA?"  
"I will contact them direct," she said.

"Good luck," said Paul.

"Thanks. I'll need it," said Sandrine, and signed off.

* * *

"What now?" said Gavin.

"Now, we wait!" said Paul, and sat down once again at the time-lapse terminal. "And we pray."

"What do I tell Alon?" said Gavin.

"Nothing."  
"He's not stupid!" said Gavin.

"That much is clear," said Paul. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

* * *

Sandrine contacted the Met Office in the USA.  
"Henderson!" barked the man at the other end, when Sandrine managed to finally get through. He had a wide, reddening face, and a grey moustache which contrasted with his brown hair. He was wearing a lab coat over a green military uniform.

"This is Sandrine DuVivier, in Montréal, at the CMC."

"CMC?"  
"Centre Meteorologique Canadien."  
"French, huh?" said Henderson.

"No, Canadian."

"You mean the Canadian Meteorological Centre?" said Henderson, patronisingly.

"That's what I said," said Sandrine, understanding at once the problems that Gavin had had with dealing with him.

"What do you want?" he barked.

"I understand that you have been speaking with someone about a problem with your prediction model?"  
"Yes. But I told him as well, there's nothing wrong with our model."  
"There most certainly is. Your model fails to take into account the problems caused by recent storms."  
"We are confident in the accuracy of our predictions!" said Henderson, proudly.  
"How do you explain the high winds and rough seas so close to US and Canadian territorial waters?"  
"It's just slightly more severe than we expected."

"I'm emailing you the data now."  
"I don't need to see your data!"

"I'm sending it anyway."  
"Why?" asked Henderson.

"Because when it all goes to the wall, I'll know I did my part. Will you do yours, Mr. Henderson?"

"It's Colonel Henderson! I know what I'm doing!" he growled.

"What are you doing?"  
"Monitoring."  
"I'm evacuating coastal regions and the areas surrounding the Great Lakes. I suggest you do the same."

"Spend millions of dollars moving people who don't want to go, to save them from a storm that isn't coming? I don't think so, Miss DuVivier!"

"It's Professor DuVivier."

"That's nice. Look, I have other things to do, you know!"

"I'm sorry you aren't listening, Colonel Henderson. But you have been warned."

"Whatever!" said Henderson, and hung up.

* * *

Sandrine poured herself a glass of water, and made a very important phone call. She had never used the hotline before, and her hand sock as she picked up the receiver. It was an old analogue telephone, used because in the event of a disaster like this, it was much more likely than a digital videophone to keep working.

"Anawak," said the voice at the other end, gravely.  
"Prime Minister?"  
"Yes?"  
"This is Sandrine DuVivier from the CMC."  
"We have a situation?" asked Prime Minister Anawak.

"Code red weather," said Sandrine.

"Location?"

"Suggest evacuation of towns and cities within 100 miles of east coast, and surrounding Great Lakes. Everyone else east of Winnipeg should make severe storm arrangements."  
"That's a lot of people to move!"

"Yes, Sir. But it is necessary."

"Then we'd better get started."  
"Thank you, Sir."

"I'll make the arrangements."

Sandrine smiled sadly. She was taken with the way the Prime Minister of Canada trusted her so much. "Goodbye, Sir."

* * *

Sandrine looked up from her desk, and pressed a button on her phone to call in her assistant, who summoned a colleague.  
"Yes?" said Guillaume as he entered.

"Guillaume, we are instigating severe weather plan Code red." She filled him in on the particulars.

The news was grave; Guillaume knew that this meant a severe, potentially devastating storm was going to make landfall in Canada. However, he reacted in the same way as if Sandrine had asked him to make her a cup of tea. "Right," he said. "I'll get thing going."  
"And Guillaume?"  
"I sent this to the Met Office in the US. They didn't listen. Keep sending it. Send it to the papers if you have to- but only as a last resort."  
"Okay," said Guillaume, and departed.


	8. Rising Waters

Chapter 8

The Canadian evacuation went smoothly, but slowly, into the night. People were loaded onto buses, planes and trains as the weather closed in. Heavy rain was already causing localised flooding, and sea defences on the east coast were being tested to their limits.

* * *

When the news broke over the USA, the weather was already terrible. With no advance warning, people took to the highways and tried to head south or west. This led to chaos on all forms of transport. The National Guard were very thin on the ground at this early stage, and the police were completely overwhelmed.

* * *

The rain fell heavier over Rutland, Michigan. Michael leaned against the sill of the window, looking up at the grey, threatening sky, oblivious to the warnings. The Markowitzes had never had a television. "Seems we're in for some weather!" he said jovially to Della.

"Yes. I'm beginning to wish I had gone with Alon!"

Thunder roared, and forked lightning filled the dimming sky. It was darker than usual for the time of day. The rain grew heavier, and it became difficult to see the houses on the other side of the cul-de-sac. Michael said a quiet prayer to himself, and jumped off the window sill.

"Why don't you listen to the radio?" asked Della. "There might be a weather report on."  
"Right-o!" said Michael.

Della smiled at his mock English accent. "I'll make us some tea."

* * *

Della was boiling the kettle when there was a popping sound. The lights, now very necessary, went out, and the low whir of the tumble dryer in the utility room ceased. Michael hurried into the kitchen, and fumbled under the sink for the candle lanterns. When he lit one, it glowed eerily in the dark, and a sense of foreboding filled Della's heart.

Michael saw her face and smiled, comfortingly. "Hang tight, honey. I'll be in the basement."

He opened the small door in the corner of the kitchen and descended down the stairs. He got a cold shock as about three steps from the bottom he felt the icy cold water that filled the bottom of the basement.

"Well, this could be a problem!" he said quietly, and whispered another short prayer. The fuse box was high on the wall, and on opening it he found all the circuit breakers in the on position. He snapped a few on and off to check, but now knew that the problem was with the grid, not the house. He headed back up.

* * *

Della noticed the wet legs of Michael's trousers. "What?" she asked.

"Just a bit of a flood down there. You know, all this rain has to go somewhere!" He tried to sound cheerful. He shut the basement door when he heard the gushing sound of more water running in. Della did not notice. Michael went into the hall and tried the telephone. It was dead. He tried his own cellphone, but it did not have a signal. He went back to the kitchen, trying not to look worried.

"I found these," said Della, and held up some batteries she had found for the radio.

"Great!" said Michael, fumbling them into the radio.  
"It's at times like this I wish we had a TV!" said Della, joking.

"Like you can put batteries in a TV!" said Michael, joking too.

He put the batteries in and played with the tuner. When he found Radio Michigan, he and Della listened intently to the report.

"_Welcome back to Livetime! With Richard Carron. We're continuing to use this station to make broadcasts to the people of Michigan in the current crisis. Severe weather is expected to continue, and it is expected that there will be severe flooding in the Great Lakes area. If you can easily travel, you are advised to leave and head south east for Indiana. If you cannot easily travel, please stay where you are, and you will be picked up by the national guard. There is no reason to panic, this is purely a preventative measure. If you live in any of the following areas, please do not attempt to leave the area. If possible, gather with friends or relatives in nearby homes. Keep people together. If you can, head for houses on higher ground. Please do no attempt to leave. Lakes Huron and Michigan have flooded, as have the surrounding rivers. The roads are blocked to all but specialised vehicles. Listen for your area, and obey the instructions. Here is the list; the entire greater Detroit area, as far as Ann Arbor; Port Huron, Saginaw, Bay City, Midland, Standish, Tawas City, Alpena, Cheboygan, The Lake Islands, Petosley, Traverse City, Frankfort, Manistee, Ludington, Grand Rapids, Kentwood, Hastings, Greater Muskegon, Holland, Benton Harbor, St Joseph, and Niles. Lake Superior is currently not flooded badly but is expected to follow Huron and Michigan. So listeners north of St. Ignace can head for Wisconsin, and receive further instructions there. Please do not try and enter Canada. Her borders are closed."_

The man began the message again. Michael put his hand on his wife's.

"They said Hastings!" she said. It was their nearest town. "What are we going to do?"

"Like the man said, we wait for the national guard." Michael spoke calmly. He sighed as he could hear the water rising in the basement. He was going to suggest moving, but was startled by an almighty crash from the front yard. He ran to the window, and even though visibility was very poor, he could make out his car, now floating away from the house. His heart sank. He tried to fight his fear, and took a deep breath.

"Okay, Della. Come on! We pack up what we need and go upstairs."  
Della responded well to Michael taking leadership of the situation, and filled a plastic box with food and medicines, while Michael filled another with bottled water from the fridge. They retreated upstairs to their bedroom, now wet to the ankles.  
"At least Alon is away from all this!" said Michael.  
"He'll be worried!" said Della.

"I know."

"Are we going to be okay, Michael?" asked Della. She sounded like a frightened child.

"Of course, honey!" said Michael, cheerfully. "The National Guard will be here in no time. You might get a ride in a hummer. Or even a helicopter!" said Michael.  
Della laughed, nervously. "Alon will be sorry he missed this!"


	9. A Connection

Chapter 9

"Calm down, Alon!" said Adrian soothingly.  
Alon was frantically dialling and redialling the numbers on the videophone. Each time he connected, he got a dead line. He punched on the keypad, with tears rolling down his eyes. Adrian took hold of his shoulders, and Alon relaxed.

Gavin sat down beside them. Behind them, in the common room, they could hear the news reports coming in of the weather in the North Eastern US and Canada. They were calling it a hurricane.

"What's wrong, Alon?" asked Gavin.

"I can't get through to my parents!" said Alon. He punched the desk in frustration.

"Hey, I'm sure it's nothing!" said Gavin, jovially. "Imagine how many people are trying to call relatives at the moment! The whole network is probably jammed up solid!"

"Yeah!" said Adrian. "That must be it!"

"Did you get through to your parents, Adrian?" asked Gavin.

Adrian pulled Gavin to one side. "My dad called me. He's in Scagway."

"Oh."

"Yeah."  
"Just try and keep him calm, could you? I'm sure there'll be news soon."  
"Sure," said Adrian, and Gavin smiled and left.

"Come on, Alon," said Adrian. "We can try E Messaging."

Alon nodded, and followed Adrian back to the dorms."

* * *

"I'm sure everything will be alright, Alon," said Adrian, sitting on his bunk.

"How do you know?" said Alon, angrily.

Adrian looked guilty. "I guess I don't."

Alon looked sheepish. "I'm sorry, Adrian. I am. I just hate not being able to find out. I should be there, you know! And you know what they're calling this? Hurricane Alan! I feel like I'm destroying my own home!"

"That's just a coincidence, Alon."

"Whatever." Alon was angry again. He hit the edge of the bed. "It's just that, I should be there, you know?"

Adrian nodded. "I wish I'd been there when my mom died. They thought I was too young to understand."

Alon smiled, acknowledging Adrian's pain. "I'm sorry."  
"Don't worry about it."

"I know something's wrong."  
"You don't know. It's probably like Gavin said, all the lines are jammed."

"No. I just know something's wrong. They're in danger."  
"They're probably sleeping on a high school gymnasium floor in Indiana!" said Adrian, trying to sound cheerful.

"No. They're in danger. Terrible danger." Alon sat down cross legged on the floor, and removed his glasses. He rubbed his eyes.

Adrian looked at him, curiously. He looked as if he were meditating. Adrian felt a strange energy in the room.  
"I don't know. I can just feel something's wrong. It's happened before. But my parents will know I'm safe, too. We can sort of, feel each other."  
"Really?" said Adrian, trying to mask his scepticism.

"I feel like they're dying."

"They could just as easily be fine."  
Alon put his glasses back on and stood up. The tears came again, and he felt a pain in his heart. It was worse than anything he had ever felt.

Adrian jumped down from his bunk, and put his arm around Alon's shoulders. Alon turned into him.

"Come on," said Adrian. "Let's take a walk." He hoped it would help distract Alon from his worry.

* * *

"I'm cold, Michael!" said Della, quietly.

Michael held his wife close to him, and shut his eyes, briefly. They were huddled on a soaked bed in the spare room, which was on a slightly higher level than the other rooms, under a pitched roof. The water had risen to the point where it lapped around the mattress. Both of them were wet through, and had stopped shivering. Michael was tired, and finding it increasingly difficult to keep himself awake. Rain was washing down the walls where the wind had taken the shingles off the roof. The noise of the wind was deafening. Michael had wondered about death all of his life. He was a religious man, and had not feared death, since it would ultimately bring him closer to God. He had not feared death until now. This was not like he had imagined. He thought that he would grow old, and have time to plan for the future of those he left behind. He thought that Alon would be a grown man, perhaps with children of his own, and would have been so prepared by he and Della, that he would not miss them so much. He thought that it would be peaceful, and that when it came, he would welcome it. But this was far from what he had imagined. His life was being slowly and torturously drawn out of him, like his soul was being dragged from his body, unwilling to let go. It was physically painful, with each shallow breath feeling like inhaling shards of ice. A tight band was squeezing his chest, forcing him to work very hard to draw every breath. His eyes stung, but he knew that he had to keep them open to avoid falling asleep. His arms and legs were numb, and were slung idly about his body, apart from one arm, which was around the shoulders of his wife. This was the most painful part. As well as his own, painful experience, he was watching Della die. This was something he had never imagined; he had always assumed that she would survive him.

"It's all right, honey. It's all right. Try to stay awake," said Michael. It was a strain to talk. The water had sapped so much of his strength that even moving his mouth was a drain on him. Della was lapsing in and out of consciousness. Michael called to her again but she did not wake. She began to mumble incoherently. Now Michael's thoughts turned to Alon. He thanked God that he was far away from all this, but his heart bled for him; Michael had lost his father at 15, and it was a terrible blow to him even then. Now Alon had to grow up not only without a father, but without a mother as well. Michael mentally gained a momentary clarity. He realised that he knew he was dying. He was resigned to death. It came as both a shock and a relief. The numbness advanced through his body, and what little he could still feel felt like a wet sponge. The water was level with the mattress now, and they were in it. Instead of his own life, it was Alon's that flashed before him. He could see him now, safe, supported, and not alone. He felt a sense of peace in his own heart, but turmoil in his son's. In a split second he relived every moment of his life with Alon; laughed and cried with his son. But now he felt his eyelids grow too heavy to keep open. He gave one final effort, and tried to wake his wife.

"Della. Della!" he shouted with all the force he could muster, and tried to shake his wife with his numb arm. She roused.  
"Michael?"

"I love you. More than I could ever say."

Della's eyes became clear and filled with emotion. "I love you too, Michael. I love you too."  
They gave each other a long look of understanding, and used the last of their strength to bring their faces closer together. They kissed softly.

"Shema-" began Michael, and Della joined in.

_"Shema Yisroel, hashem eloheinu, heashem ekhad."_

They each mumbled the rest of the prayer quietly, and closed their eyes.

* * *

Adrian held the dining room door open for Alon as they returned from their short walk. Alon stepped through, and as Adrian closed the door, Alon stopped dead in his tracks. He pitched over backwards in a dead faint. His head hit the ground hard, and a small pool of blood collected beneath his head as several members of staff ran over to the fallen boy. Adrian shook him; his eyes were shut and his body lifeless. 


	10. Fallen

Chapter 10

"Alon, can you hear me?"

Alon could hear muffled voices surrounding him. He opened his eyes, slowly, and was met by a blur of faces looking across at him, close to the floor. He was lying on his side, with his head rested on his hand, in the recovery position. His head hurt severely; he closed his eyes again.

"Hey, Alon! Come on!" It was Gavin's voice.  
Gavin looked to Paul, who was kneeling behind Alon, holding a blood soaked towel over the back of the little boy's head. He shook Alon's shoulder gently. "Alon, can you hear me?"  
Alon did not respond.

Paul leaned down and squeezed Alon's earlobe. This made him open his eyes.

"That's it, Alon. Stay with us now!" said Gavin. He placed an oxygen mask over Alon's face. It was adult sized, so Gavin had to bend it to fit under Alon's glasses.

"Where's the damn ambulance?" shouted Paul at another member of staff.

"At least 5 minutes away," she replied.

Alon closed his eyes again, and was revived once more with another squeeze of his earlobe. He felt tired, and as if there was no weight to his body; he had no control over it. He could not think clearly about anything. By the time he thought of something to say, the beginning of the sentence had already gone from his mind, and he was thinking half-thoughts. He could not understand where he was; why he was on the ground; and why he couldn't see. He was tired. He wanted to shut his eyes.

Staff were clearing the last of the campers from the hall.  
"No! No! I want to stay!" Adrian protested. "He'd want me here!"

Paul looked over and nodded, and Adrian was released. He rushed to Alon's side.

"You're going to be okay, Alon. It's all going to be okay, just like I said!" he sobbed.

Alon appeared lifeless once again.

"Come one, Alon. Wake up, Kid!" said Paul. This time, the earlobe squeeze did not rouse Alon. Paul squeezed harder, and again got no response. He looked over at Gavin, seriously, and pinched the skin between Alon's thumb and forefinger. Again, no response. Paul shot another worried look at Gavin. Looking first at Paul, then at Adrian, then back to Paul, Gavin felt for Alon's pulse. It was fast, and weak, but most certainly present. Gavin nodded to Paul, who breathed relief, but swapped sides with Gavin to look into Alon's eyes. Gavin applied slightly more pressure to the towel covering Alon's head would than he intended, and it caused a wringing motion which squeezed more blood onto the floor. Gavin grimaced. Paul shone a penlight into Alon's eyes, and looked over at Gavin, deadpan.

Adrian saw the exchange. "What's wrong with him?" he asked, tearfully.

"He's going to be okay, Adrian," said Gavin, trying to contain his nausea concerning the blood.

Adrian looked at Paul. "I'm not stupid, you know!" he cried.

Gavin looked at Paul.

"Do you suspect a skull fracture?" asked Adrian.

Once again, Gavin and Paul were reminded that they were not dealing with normal children. Adrian possessed both the maturity and understanding to deal with an honest explanation of the situation.

"We do," said Paul. "But we're not doctors, Adrian. We, like you, are just going to have to hope for the best."

Adrian nodded, sadly. "But how can he have hurt himself so badly? He only fell backwards onto the floor! Surely that wouldn't have been enough to crack his skull!"

"Did he just faint?" asked Paul.

"What do you mean?" sniffed Adrian.

"You were the only one who saw the whole thing. Did he just faint, or did something else happen?"

Adrian thought for a moment. He did seem to go rigid first, almost like a statue looking up at the sky. Only for a second. Then it looked like somebody cut his strings. He just went backwards." Adrian had stopped crying and had closed his eyes to concentrate. "It was his head that hit the ground first."  
"How?" said Gavin.

"It could have been some kind of fit," said Paul. "That would explain the rigidity and the force of the fall."  
"Alon doesn't have epilepsy," said Adrian. "At least, he never said so. And he doesn't carry medication or anything."  
"Yes," said Paul. "We pulled his records and there is no mention. However, just because there is no history that does not mean that is not what is happening here."

Gavin turned his face away from the blood, and began to breathe heavily.

Adrian looked expectantly at Paul.

"Adrian, could you take over from him?" asked Paul. Adrian shuffled around to his friend's side, and placed his hands over the towel as Gavin removed his own. He was white and shivering.

"Why don't you go and wait for the ambulance, Gavin?" said Paul. Gavin nodded and went outside. "If it ever comes!" said Paul, frustrated. He yelled over to the staff on the other side of the room trying to turn away the rubber-neckers gathered in the corridor outside. "Call it again, will you?" The woman nodded and ran out.

* * *

Paul took Alon's pulse again, and could not find a radial. He pressed his fingers to Alon's neck and found a pulse, but also noticed blood coming from his mouth. It was covering the inside of the mask with droplets. He tried to open his mouth a little more, and some more blood flowed out. He moved the mask aside and shone his penlight into the little boy's mouth but could not see very far in because of the position in which he was lying. He was pleased to see the condensation forming on the lens of his torch from Alon's breathing. When he removed the penlight, he saw Alon's eyes fluttering.

"Alon? Can you hear me, Alon?" he said, and looked for a response. None came. He squeezed his earlobe again, and then pressed the webbing of his thumb. He did not rouse but his eyes continued to flutter. Paul tried to open one of his eyelids, gently, but in a moment he became absolutely jammed shut. Alon's spine arched backwards as all of his muscles tightened. His body shook, enough to jolt him around on the floor, there was an horrific crepitus sound as Alon's teeth ground together. Adrian grabbed his arm to try and stop him shaking.

"No!" said Paul. "Let him go, Adrian!"

Adrian did as he was asked but began to cry again.

Paul felt totally helpless as Alon convulsed. His eyes stung with tears, and Adrian nodded to him, comfortingly.

"It's going to be alright, Alon," said Paul.

"Of course you are!" said Adrian. "Anyway, your project report is due next week! Snap out of it! There's work to do!"

Alon did not respond, but began to shake a little less. Paul smiled weakly at Adrian.

* * *

Alon had almost stopped fitting completely, but was still rigid, when two paramedics rushed into the room, followed by Gavin.

"What have we got?" asked the female paramedic, who immediately dropped onto her knees next to Alon and leaned down to his face.

"This is Alon, he's 9 years old, he collapsed after coming in from a walk with this young man," said Paul, gesturing to Adrian. "He-"  
"What happened, Kid?" said the paramedic.

"We were walking, and just after he stepped through the door, He went rigid and his head went up. Then he fell backwards so that his head hit the ground first." Adrian spoke very matter-of-factly.

"And he was fine before?" asked the male paramedic, who appeared, dragging a trolley.

"Not exactly," said Paul.

"Oh?" said the paramedic, questioningly.

"He's from Michigan. He couldn't get through to his parents."  
"Oh," said the paramedic, somewhat surprised.

The woman was recording observations, writing them on her latex glove with a biro, and trying to wake Alon, who by now was limp and lifeless again.

"He's had one, or maybe two seizures," said Paul, who described them.

The male paramedic tossed the towel from the back of Alon's head aside and replaced it with a large, thick dressing, which he tied on securely. This gave Adrian a split second view of the wound in Alon's head. He was sure he could see bone. He shuddered.

"Who's coming?" asked the woman, as she communicated silently with her partner, and they loaded Alon onto the trolley, being careful to keep him in the same position.

"I am," said Paul, and looked over at Adrian. "Him too," he said.

"We only have room for one passenger," said the woman, strictly. "Sorry." She looked at Adrian, standing and looking sadly at his fallen friend. The sight moved her. "'Kay," she said. "You can ride up front."

She and her partner pulled the trolley out into the evening twilight, and Paul and Adrian followed.

"Can you get him, and us, some spare clothes, toiletries, that sort of thing? I think this is going to be long haul," said Paul.

"Sure," said Gavin. "I'll bundle some stuff and follow you in my car."  
"Thanks," said Paul.

"Look I'm sorry about-"  
"You've nothing to be sorry for. Don't give it a second thought," said Paul. Gavin nodded and left. Paul walked around the building quickly and jumped into the ambulance, taking a seat opposite Alon. The woman closed the doors.

"Fasten your seatbelt!" she ordered, and as Paul did so, she banged on the roof. The ambulance took off with a roar.


	11. Waiting Game

Chapter 11

Paul and Adrian waited nervously outside the trauma room as the team worked on Alon. Eventually, Adrian fell asleep, and Paul covered him with his coat. Gavin had brought them each a change of clothes and some provisions, so Paul sipped hot tea from a flask. A few times he left Gavin with Adrian while he attempted to contact Alon's parents, but he had no success. He walked wearily back to Gavin.

Gavin noticed Paul's eyes drooping. "Why don't you go and get a coffee. Or take a walk?" said Gavin.

"No, I-"  
"Come on. If anything happens, I'll make sure you know straightaway."

Paul smiled. "Okay, then."

* * *

Paul walked to the cafeteria, and on the way noticed another bank of videophones next to the waiting room. He pulled the notepaper with Alon's address and phone number on, and dialled once more as he stood in the doorway. There was no response, but Paul did not really expect one. As he hung up, something caught his eye on the television in the waiting room. 

"_Over to our news-copter live from Michigan State,"_

"_Well, John, we're flying over Southern Michigan at the moment. The worst of the weather has gone from here but it's still pretty unpleasant."_

Paul came inside the room and closer to the television. The pictures were shaking with the movement of the helicopter. All that could be seen was water, far and wide, the surface of which was only broken by tops of trees and the occasional roofs of houses. Some had messages written on them, but Paul could not make them out. The sky was almost black, and threatening. Rain pounded the helicopter, distorting the sound.

"Oh dear God!" he said aloud. The destruction looked total.

"_We hear that the devastation is worst in the triangle between Detroit, Portage and Grand Rapids. Shorelines of the lakes have been hard hit also, but more people managed to evacuate these areas. Back to you, John."  
"We'll bring you more news as we get it. You're watching NBCN."  
_Paul clapped his hands over his mouth. He was in mental turmoil. There had to have been deaths. If he had been more persistent, maybe more people would have got away. He changed the channel.

"_Canada News reporting live from hurricane Alan. The hurricane rages on in the Great Lakes area, although we are told the worst is over. So far, Canadian deaths are still in single figures. The evacuation operation was very successful, and the Home Guard are still assisting rescues. We expect the weather to last for another 24 hours."_

Paul shook his head, and turned off the television. He did not feel like coffee or a walk, and headed back to Gavin and Adrian.

* * *

All three were asleep when one of the trauma doctors came out to talk to them after several hours. She gently roused Paul, assuming him to be the father of the group.  
"Mr. Markowitz?" 

"Paul Durant," replied Paul, extending his hand.

"Are you not the boy's Father?" asked the doctor. Paul sucked in his cheeks; he had already explained this about five times, and he was tired and frustrated.

"No, I'm a camp counsellor."  
"We need a signature. He needs surgery to repair his skull fracture."  
"What kind of surgery?"

"We think he has a bleed in his brain."  
"Right."  
"So we need a parent or guardian signature."  
"I'll sign."  
"It would be better if we had a parent signature. Can I call them?"  
"I'm afraid not."  
The doctor eyed Paul with a little suspicion. "Why not, Mr. Durant?"  
"It's Professor. And he's from Michigan," said Paul, severely.

"I'm sorry," said the doctor, and held up an electronic form for Paul to sign. He obliged, and watched them wheel Alon out of the trauma room. You could barely see the boy for all the equipment piled around him. Paul ran his fingers through his hair.

* * *

Paul woke Gavin. "You'd better get Adrian and yourself back to camp. You're both exhausted. I've sent for a car to collect you."  
"Are you going to be okay?" said Gavin, quietly so as not to wake Adrian. He knew he would protest at being taken back to camp. 

"Yeah," sighed Paul. "I think this is going to be long haul."

In silence they waited for the car, and when it arrived, Gavin picked Adrian up gently. He did not wake. The man who had come to collect them, Steve Vaughan, slapped Paul lightly on the arm as they walked out. Paul sank back down onto the bench.

* * *

It was twelve hours before there was word. Paul spent most of it watching news reports on the television. From these, he learned that most of the weather had subsided, although in some places it was still raining, and rescue operations had begun in earnest. The National Guard had discovered over 100 dead already. Paul was horrified. 

"Professor Durant?" A short man in surgical scrubs had come into the room.

"Yes?" said Paul, turning around.

"I'm Dr. Cahill. I was one of the surgeons working on Alon Markowitz."  
"Hello," said Paul, and shook his hand. "Is he okay?"

"The injuries were pretty severe given the description of what happened. Although the skull fracture and subsequent intracranial bleed were severe, there was yet more trauma to the brain unaccounted for by these injuries."  
"What does that mean?"

"I'm afraid we don't know. But it is almost as if part of his brain were damaged without any external trauma. It is very odd."  
"But he'll be okay?"  
"He's in recovery now. The operation went well, and when he is a little more stable he'll be transferred to paediatric intensive care. I think his prospects look good, but we will know more when he regains consciousness."

"How long?" asked Paul.

"Difficult to say, Professor. It's up to Alon, now."

"He's a tough kid," said Paul, smiling.

"Yes, he is," said the doctor. "You can go and wait for him in PICU. He shouldn't be too long."

Paul nodded, and the doctor left. Paul went to the videophone and relayed the news back to camp. He tried Alon's parents again, but now he was not at all surprised to get no answer. Paul headed up to the PICU, and prepared himself for a long wait.

* * *

When Alon was brought into the ward, he looked ghastly. His glasses were laid on the bed next to him, and his eyes were taped shut. He had a tube coming out of his mouth, which the team attached to a ventilator. His little body had various drips and monitors attached, and he looked grey. His lips matched his pallid skin. The team who brought him in huddled around Alon for a while, conversing with the ward staff and handing Alon over formally. Eventually, Paul was left alone in the room with Alon, and one nurse. 

Paul stood next to Alon's bed, and held on to the rails. It was a very small bed, and it brought home to Paul that for all of his maturity and intelligence, he was just a little boy. He looked even younger than his nine years, and the cartoon character blankets on his bed made Paul smile. That was not Alon's style at all. The nurse was busy jotting down notes, and noticed Paul gently rocking himself back and forth while holding onto the rail.  
"You can talk to him, you know," he said.

"Can he hear me?" asked Paul.

"We don't know. Some studies have shown that some comatose patients can hear, smell and even feel touch. But more than that, it might make you both feel better."  
Paul nodded. He gently took hold of Alon's left hand. It was strapped onto a small piece of rigid plastic so that the IV tube would not be disturbed. His hand felt strange and lifeless. Paul stood in silence.

The nurse looked at him. "Go on," he said.

"I don't know what to say," said Paul. "It doesn't matter," said the nurse. "Say anything. Tell him a fairy story."  
Paul chuckled. "This kid is way beyond fairy stories. He's a genius. A real genius!" he said.

"Well, read him some research papers!" joked the nurse.

"Actually, that's not a bad idea!" said Paul.

First taken aback, the nurse frowned, but then smiled as Paul took a paper out of his bag, and began to read it to Alon. "You need anything, just press this," he said, and handed Paul a call button.


	12. The Gravest News

Chapter 12

Paul spent two days almost entirely at Alon's bedside. He showed no improvement, but reassuringly, he did not worsen either. On the third day, Gavin arrived to visit, and brought Adrian with him.

Gavin walked behind Adrian towards Alon's bed. As they got closer, Gavin nudged him gently forward. He seemed reluctant to go near his friend. Paul had been standing near the partition that separated Alon's area from that of the next patient, allowing the nurse to take some observations. The nurse caught sight of Adrian and Gavin approaching.

"It's okay, kid," he said. "I know it looks scary, but all of this is equipment to look after your friend."

"I know," said Adrian, quietly.

"Come on," said the nurse.

Adrian came closer and sat in a chair next to the head of Alon's bed. He closed his eyes sympathetically when he saw that his friend's eyes were taped up. Alon looked strange. His face looked thinner, and he was pale and clammy. He was not wearing a shirt. Adrian knew that he would not like that much. He was a modest boy.

"Can I touch him?" asked Adrian.

"Sure. If you're careful not disturb anything," said the nurse, and smiled as he departed.

Adrian gently took his friend's hand and began to talk to him quietly.

"I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm going to talk to you anyway. I read that sometimes coma patients can hear things. It would be easier if you woke up, Alon, and then I wouldn't have to do all the talking. Our team won the dorm basketball. I didn't play. I was too sad. I miss you, Alon. I finished my research, and I've been nominated for an award at Berkeley. Your work has been all over the news. You're famous now, world famous! You'll have to wake up soon to start signing autographs! Well, actually, they just keep calling you nine-year-old Michigan boy." Adrian was trying to sound cheery, but his tone of voice and body language was utterly depressed. Alon, in just a few weeks, had become the best friend Adrian had ever had, or could ever hope to. He had never imagined anything like this. He had thought that they would return to Michigan together, and stay over at each other's houses. Now camp was almost over, and Adrian was to go to his father in Alaska. He had to leave Alon behind. He didn't want to say goodbye, in case it really was goodbye. He continued with his small talk.

* * *

"You look like hell," said Gavin, standing next to an obviously exhausted Paul, looking on at Adrian and Alon.

"I feel like it," said Paul, and smiled wryly.

"Why don't you take a break? I'll stay here," said Gavin.

"Thanks. I could do with a coffee."  
"No, I mean a real break. Get back to camp, get a night's sleep, sort yourself out, and come back tomorrow. I can stay until then."

Paul sighed.

"You can leave him for one night. You don't have to punish yourself like this."  
"I just feel like I'm all he has," Paul looked nervously at Gavin. "No word on his parents?"

"Not yet. The storms are over but it is a mess up there; a real mess. But they're still finding people alive and well."  
"I know. I've been watching the news."  
"Oh. Any change?" he said, nodding towards Alon.

"None. None at all." Paul sank into a chair and rested his head on his hands. "To be honest, they don't really know what's wrong with him. The surgery went well, and although it was a serious injury, he should be healing. But there's no change."

Gavin put his hand on Paul's shoulder. "These things take time."

"I know."

"So how about getting back to camp for a night?"

"I suppose you're right."

"Excellent. Will you be okay to drive?"  
"Sure."  
"Okay," said Gavin, and handed him the car keys. "When you're done here, you go on back. I'll call you if there is any news."

"Likewise. What about Adrian?"  
"What do you mean?" said Gavin, thinking Paul was asking about taking the boy back to camp.  
"Look at him. In two days he is going home. Well, to his father. He's leaving Alon behind."

"Yes. He has been beside himself. He doesn't want to leave him. He doesn't want to say goodbye in case Alon dies and it is the last time he sees him."

Paul shook his head. "I guess while I'm back at camp I can talk to his father."

"Good idea," said Gavin.

* * *

After an hour or so, Gavin got up and spoke to Adrian. "Come on, Adrian, it's time to go. You can come back again tomorrow."

Adrian offered no protest, and simply said, "See you tomorrow!" He paused for a moment, as if expecting some response from Alon. When it did not come, he shrugged his shoulders and followed Paul along the ward to the exit.

As they were leaving, Paul turned back to Gavin. "You'll call?"

"Of course."

Adrian and Paul left.

* * *

Gavin took Paul's seat and sat looking at Alon. He could see how it had affected Paul so. He looked so utterly helpless and sick. His little hands were bruised from the endless IV insertions. They were using his forearms now. The machines that were supporting Alon whirred, hissed and beeped. It seemed to replace the humanity of the little boy, and this felt strange to Gavin. He looked around Alon's area, and found a few things of interest. There were a few children's books, the pile of papers Paul had been reading to him, a Gideon's bible, some coloured balloons pressed against the ceiling in the corners of the cubicle, and a small box of toys. Gavin stood up and surveyed them all with interest, looking for something to do. It had not occurred to him to bring a book for himself. In any case, he wanted to do something that involved Alon, in the hope of getting him to wake up. Gavin kicked at the floor. He looked at some of the research papers but the first few were on meteorology, and he wanted to steer clear of that for the moment. He picked up one of the childrens' story books, and began to read to Alon, pointing out the banality of the plot. He thought that Alon would appreciate it.

* * *

Paul went back to his room, and showered, changed, and lay down to sleep for a few hours. He woke at lunchtime, and went to get a meal. He was very hungry, since he had been mostly living out of vending machines for the last three days. It was pasta and pesto, and it smelt delicious. Paul had joined the queue when he was called out of line by Steve Vaughan, who asked him to come to the main office. Paul shrugged and followed him, assuming that he was needed to sign something or other.

When he got to the office, Lead Counsellor Bob Thorne was waiting in his office with two military policemen. They were carrying their caps under their arms, and looked serious.

"Come in, Paul," said Bob, and bade him to sit in the chair in front of his desk. The policemen did not move.  
"Everything okay, Bob?" asked Paul, only now fully realising that the soldiers must be bearers of bad news.

"I'm afraid not. We have some bad news."  
"What sort of bad news?" Paul could not imagine would that hey come to say.

The Sergeant spoke. "Our unit is operating in the greater Hastings area in Michigan following the disaster."  
Paul's face fell. He knew what they were going to say, but mentally readied himself.

"We have found the bodies of Della and Michael Markowitz, the parents of one of your attendees, Alon Markowitz."  
"Oh, God! That poor child!" said Paul. "What about the rest of his family?"  
"He has no other family."

"Family friends then? Someone who might take him in?" said Paul.

"We are still looking into it," said the other soldier. "Early enquiries are not good. He came from the small Jewish community in Rutland. I'm afraid we have not found a single survivor."  
"How did his parents die?" asked Paul.

Bob looked at him sympathetically. "Paul, I-"

"What if Alon asks me these questions?" said Paul. "I need to have answers for the boy!"

Bob nodded.

"Hypothermia," said the soldier. He saw that Paul was looking to him for more. "We found them together, and they died on Sunday afternoon."

Paul narrowed his eyes. That was the time that Alon had keeled over. He pondered over the coincidence.

The first soldier spoke again. "They will be cremated tomorrow."

"You can't do that!" said Paul.

"Sir?" said the policeman.

"They were Jewish. Jews bury their dead. They don't cremate."  
"I'm afraid we have a public health issue to deal with. There is the threat of disease."

Paul shook his head. He understood their reasoning and knew that argument would be useless. "What will happen to Alon?"

"He is now a ward of the State of Michigan."  
"He has to go back to Michigan? He can't be moved in his condition!"  
"We will wait until he is in a stable condition to arrange to transfer him."  
"Than what?"  
"Alon will be placed in the most appropriate care setting."  
"A children's home?"

"We can't say, Sir."  
Paul shook his head. "What about a will? Did they appoint a guardian, or leave him any money or anything?"

"The state will determine that as soon as possible," said the soldier.

"And you are sure it's them?"  
The soldier looked at Paul blankly.  
"The bodies. Are you sure it's them?"  
"Yes, Sir. DNA matches positive."

Paul turned to Bob. "I need to make some calls."

Bob nodded, and stood to address the policemen. "Thank you, gentlemen."

"Sir, Sir," said the men, saluting Bob and Paul in turn.

Paul went back to his room and stared emotionless at his telephone.


	13. Two Steps Back

Chapter 13

Paul picked up the phone, and dialled the number on Adrian's contact card. It was answered quickly.

"Bisset!" said the voice on the other end,

"Mr Bisset? I's Paul Durant here, from the Berkeley Science Camp."  
"Hello," said Mr Bisset.

"I need to talk to you about your son."  
"Is he okay? He's not hurt, is he?"

"No, he's fine, at least physically."  
"What do you mean?"

"He has told you about his friend, Alon?"

"He told me that he had been taken ill one evening, and was in the hospital. How's the boy doing?"  
"Not well, unfortunately. His condition remains unchanged. He and Adrian had formed a very close relationship, and Adrian is distraught. He does not want to leave Alon behind, in case his goodbye is the last. He has been sitting at his bedside talking to him."  
"I see. I did not know they were so close. Adrian doesn't have many friends."

"He has made a few here. He's quite a popular boy. But with he and Alon being the two youngest, they have formed a bond almost like brothers."

"Are the boy's parents with him?"  
"No. I have just learned that they were both killed in the hurricane that struck Michigan."

"So what's going to happen to him?"

"I'm afraid we don't know."

There was silence on the line for a few minutes. Each man could hear the other's concentrated breathing.

"I'm due a holiday," said Mr Bisset. "I don't see why I can't take it in California. It would only be for a few weeks, but maybe that will help them both."  
"I think so. Alon needs all the friends he can get right now," said Paul, wearily.

"Leave it with me, Mr Durant."  
"Please, Paul," said Paul.

"Matthew," said Mr Bisset.

"Thankyou, Matthew," said Paul, and hung up the receiver.

* * *

Paul leaned back in his chair and covered his face with his hands. This was progress, of sorts.

Paul was early to bed that night. Although exhausted, his thoughts kept him awake until gone midnight. After twelve, his tiredness got the better of his worry, and he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

It was 9 AM when he finally awoke the next morning. Physically he felt refreshed, although mentally he was still very drained. He showered, dressed and ate breakfast, and then was kept busy for a few hours by the admin tasks he had neglected whilst at the hospital. There were only two days of camp left, and there was much to do. Paul managed to get other members of staff to fill in for his key roles, such as dealing with camper issues, and presenting the end of camp awards. However, there were still plenty of pieces of paper that needed his signature, and this occupied him until lunch.

* * *

After another good meal, Paul drove back to the hospital. He was trying not to hope that Alon would be up and around. Indeed, had he got his hopes up, he would have been rather disappointed. When he arrived in the ward, Alon lay as lifeless as ever, and Gavin was leaning on the side guards from his chair, looking at him. He looked up when Paul entered the cubicle, and rubbed his eyes.

"Hi!" he said as he stretched.  
"Any news?" asked Paul.

"None, I'm afraid."

Paul sighed and nodded. "You can get on back, now. I'll take it from here."  
"Are you sure, you still look pretty beat."

"I know. But I'd rather be here, anyway. I feel like I'm all the boy has. I feel like I'm his family now, because-"  
Gavin broke in. "For which I admire you, but don't take it all so much to heart, Paul. None of this is your fault."  
Paul smiled, thinly. "Do you think he can hear?"  
"I don't know. I've read some studies where people can hear, but I don't know whether Alon can. But the doctors said we should keep talking to him."  
"I don't know whether I should tell him this."

"What?"  
"Let's take a walk," said Paul, and he and Gavin went to the cafeteria.

* * *

"What is it?" asked Gavin in response to the serious look on Paul's face.

"We had some bad news yesterday. They found Alon's parents. They're both dead."

"Oh, God! That's awful."

"That's kind of what I meant when I said I felt I was all the boy had."  
"He didn't have any other family? Or family friends?"  
"He didn't have any other family. They are checking out friends, but he came from a small, rather insular Jewish community. So far they have found no survivors in the whole area."  
"God," said Gavin, gravely.

"I don't know what to do. I don't know whether to tell him or not, or what to do. I don't want him in a childrens' home! He needs to be somewhere that his many talents can be nurtured and developed."  
"You sound like his father, Paul!" said Gavin, seriously.

"I'd love to be! But it is for the state of Michigan to decide what happens to him."  
"They wouldn't let you adopt him?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. I mean, I'm not married, and I'm Canadian."

"If you really are serious, make some calls, Paul."  
"I don't know. Isn't that playing God with this child's future? How do I know better than social services regarding with whom to place Alon?"

"Because you genuinely have his best interests at heart," said Gavin.

Paul smiled again, then frowned. "So, do I tell him about his parents?"  
"Tough one," said Gavin. "if he can hear you, when he wakes up, he'll wonder why you didn't tell him, when you told him so much about everything else. If he can't hear you, then it doesn't matter. If it was me, I'd want to know."

"Yeah?" asked Paul, not entirely convinced. "Maybe you're right."

"I don't know. I just think if it were me, I'd want to be told."

Paul nodded. "I don't want it to hamper his progress."  
"We can ask the doctor."

* * *

Back in the cubicle, Gavin was gathering up his things. The doctor they requested arrived presently, and the three men stood in the corner of the cubicle, speaking with low voices. Paul and Gavin explained the situation.

"It is unlikely to affect his physical state," said the doctor. "If he can hear you, he may become withdrawn and upset, but because of his lack of physical recovery, we might not be able to tell."  
"So you don't think I should tell him?" asked Paul.

"I am not sure about that. If he can hear you, he'd probably want to be told straight away. When he wakes up he might resent not being able to mourn at the right time. I know I would."

Gavin looked at Paul and smiled on one side of his face. Paul nodded and looked at the doctor, who took the hint and departed.

Paul knelt on the chair next to Alon's bed, and leaned over to get close to his ear.

"Alon, I'm afraid that I am the bearer of bad news. I am not sure how to say it so I will get straight to the point. I am sorry to have to tell you that-" Paul took a deep breath. "The National Guard found your parents in the house. I'm sorry, Alon, they both died. But they didn't suffer; they passed away in their sleep." Paul cried as he spoke. He was then silent for half a minute.

* * *

Paul was roused from his concentration on Alon by the sound of an alarm from one of the machines that he was connected to. Paul stood up abruptly, and watched as Alon's face grimaced and his body tensed. Paul looked at Gavin who immediately took to his heels and ran from the cubicle. However the medical staff had heard the alarm already and practically ran Gavin down as they made their way in. Alon's little body shook, and bloody froth dripped from his tightly pursed lips. Paul was shoved out of the way by one of the doctors, and Alon was surrounded. All the staff seemed to speak at once and Paul found it hard to discern what they were saying.

"He's seizing!"  
"Get me the diazepam!"

"Give me a BP!"  
"Resps?"

Paul stood back, next to Gavin. They both felt helpless. Gavin hugged Paul. He knew that he would think that he had brought this on.

The two minutes during which Alon was fitting seemed like a lifetime. But finally, the little boy stopped, and his face relaxed. The doctors administered some drugs, and then thinned out. One went to arrange a head CT, another to get more drugs, and another to get a consultant neurosurgeon. This left only one doctor.

Paul went back to Alon's bed. "Did I do this?"  
"What?" asked the doctor.

"I told him his parents had died, and this happened!"

"No, don't blame yourself. We think that he has another bleed in his brain. We're getting a head CT to confirm this. He might need further surgery. But this is nothing you did or didn't do. This is probably an effect of his original surgery.

Paul breathed relief. Two porters appeared.

"Okay, we need to get this kid to CT!" said the doctor. He and the porter's connected Alon to portable equipment, and he was wheeled away.


	14. Taking Things to Heart

Chapter 14

Once again Paul found himself waiting on a bench, in the corridor, for news of Alon's condition. Gavin was asleep, leaning over one of the arms of the bench, resting his head on his hands. Paul could not sleep. He had been up all night while they had been operating on Alon. Paul's circadian rhythm was completely ruined, and he did not know whether it was morning or evening. It was light outside, and Paul felt cold, so thought that it must be early morning. He was really amazed by the intensity of the bond he had developed with Alon. At the back of his mind he was thinking about trying to adopt him. He tried not to think about it, since he was unsure as to whether he would succeed and did not want to get his hopes up. Besides, at the moment, most of his emotional energy was being dedicated to praying for Alon to live.

* * *

Finally, once again, a doctor emerged from the theatre corridor. Paul tried not to read the expression on his face as he stood to greet him.

"Alon's guardian?"

"Yes, I- I think so," said Paul, stumbling because he suddenly realised that with Alon now a ward of the state, he had no right to decide anything about Alon's treatment.

"The surgery was tricky, and Alon had to be resuscitated once."  
"So is he okay?" said Paul, hopefully.

"He is stable at the moment, but I'm afraid we can't rule out the possibility of permanent brain damage."  
"Oh, God!" said Paul.

"Wait, Professor Durant. Don't go making any assumptions just yet. He may be absolutely fine."  
"But what if he isn't?"  
"I'm afraid we shall have to wait and see. They'll be taking him back to the PICU soon."

Paul nodded, and the doctor shook his hand, and left. Paul sat back down and covered his mouth with his hand. He had a headache, and his arms and legs felt heavy. He prodded Gavin, gently.

"Huh?" said Gavin, stretching.

"Come on," said Paul. "They'll be taking him back up to the ward soon,"

Gavin followed Paul back to the ward on autopilot. Paul felt weaker with every step, and was finding it hard to put one foot in front of the other. He felt as if his muscles were going to let go of his legs.

* * *

Paul and Gavin waited in silence for Alon's return. It was 11 o'clock when he was finally wheeled back in. It had been six hours since he had come out of surgery. The medical staff took him off the portable and connected him back to the static equipment in the cubicle. To Paul they seemed a blur as they talked and scribbled, until finally, they were gone. Paul went over to Alon's head. He was not prepared for what he saw, and began to cry. He looked worse than ever, with his head so swollen that it made his features seem pushed together. His eyes were bruised, and his skin was in varying shades of white, back and purple. His fists were clenched, and also bruised, with IV tubes coming out of them. Both wrists had plastic boards bandaged onto them. The machine that beeped with Alon's heartbeat was more rapid and highly pitched than before. The mass of bandage around his head pressed on his ears making them stick out to the sides. Paul took Alon's hand with one of his, and wiped his eyes with the other. More and more, he felt for Alon as if he were his own son. It was hurting him badly.

Gavin noticed his tears and put his arm around him. Paul returned the hug. When Gavin let go, he felt Paul's body slump and had to catch him again before he hit the floor. "Little help!" he called. He was joined by a nurse and a doctor.

"What happened?" asked the doctor.

"He's exhausted," said Gavin. "Physically and mentally. He's been here for days. Since Alon came in here he's spent one night away. He isn't sleeping or eating properly. He's really taken this thing to heart."

The doctor looked at the nurse, and she nodded and walked out.

Paul groaned as he came to.

"Please, Paul, don't get up too quickly. How are you feeling?"  
"Fine," said Paul, quietly.

"Honestly, please," said the doctor, curtly.

"Sick," said Paul.

The doctor took Paul's cold, clammy wrist and felt for a pulse.

"Maybe you should go back to camp, Paul?" said Gavin.

"No. I want to stay here."

The doctor smiled at him, and the nurse returned, pushing a trolley.

"Can you give us a hand?" asked the doctor, and Gavin obliged. He tried to lift Paul, but as soon as he was to his feet they began to buckle again. The two women helped put him on the trolley, on his side.

"I'm sorry," said Paul.

"Don't mention it," said the doctor. "I admire your dedication. Now," she said, and put an IV into Paul's arm.  
"What's that?" asked Paul.

"Some fluids, nutrition, vitamins," said the doctor.

"Thankyou," said Paul, and drifted off to sleep.

"We'll take care of him, "said the doctor, as Gavin opened his mouth to speak. She gave Paul a chart and recorded the treatment on it.  
"Can you do that?" asked Gavin.

"Happens more than you'd think."

"What?"  
"Exhausted parents."  
"He's not-"  
"We know the story," said the doctor. "We think it's wonderful. We just hope that Alon is alright."  
"So do we," said Gavin. "So do we."

"You don't look so good yourself. Why don't you go and get some rest?"

"I think I might," said Gavin. "Camp is winding down. There are kids already going home, and there are things for Paul to sort out, so I guess I should get started on them!"

"We'll call you if there's any news. About either of them."

"Thanks."  
Gavin left.

* * *

Back at camp, Gavin checked Paul's pigeon hole to find a telephone message from Mr. Bisset, asking to be called back. Gavin picked up the phone and dialled.

"Bisset!" said Matthew.

"Hello, Mr. Bisset, this is Gavin, I work for Professor Durant, who I believe you have been talking with."  
"Yes, and call me Matthew. Where is Paul?"  
"I'm afraid he is still at the hospital."

"Is Alon any better? I've spoken to Adrian and he told me that he had to have another surgery."  
"That's right."  
"Well, I rang because I have managed to get some holiday time, so I can stay with Adrian in California. School doesn't start again for another three weeks, and we'll be happy to offer any help we can."  
"That's very kind of you, Matthew."  
"Least I can do. He's been a real friend to Adrian."  
"And vice versa, clearly," said Gavin.

"I'll be collecting Adrian tomorrow."  
"See you then."  
"Goodbye."

* * *

Gavin headed for Alon's dorm, and found Adrian lying on Alon's bunk, and cases and boxes on the floor.

"I packed Alon's things for him," said Adrian, sadly.

"Thankyou, Adrian; that was very thoughtful."  
Adrian nodded. Gavin could not think of anything to say to comfort him. He could not tell white lies and fob him off like he could an 'ordinary' child. Adrian would see right through him. He decided to be honest, as he knew Adrian would respect that.  
"Alon's latest surgery was 'tricky'- that's what the doctor said. They say he might have some brain damage, but that they won't know until he wakes up."  
"Thankyou," said Adrian; he really appreciated Gavin's candidness.

"Maybe when your father comes to collect you, you can go and see him again."  
Adrian nodded and smiled.

"Why don't you go and join in with one of the games?"  
"I'm tired," said Adrian.

"You know, playing sports can make you less tired."  
Adrian nodded lethargically.  
"Or maybe you could join in the chess tournament this evening?"  
"I don't feel like it."  
"You might feel better if you talk."  
"I don't want to talk about Alon."  
"Who says you have to talk about Alon?"

"I don't know."

Gavin could see he was losing the battle, and did not want to force the issue. "Just think about it, okay?"  
Adrian nodded.


	15. Relief

Chapter 15

Paul slept for almost 20 hours. When he awoke, he found the doctor sitting next to him.

"Feeling better?" she asked.

Paul nodded. "Yes, much better, thankyou."

"You look a lot better."  
"Thanks."  
"Don't be so hard on yourself. We're here to support you, too."  
"I'm not his father," said Paul, now looking over to Alon to make sure nothing had happened while he had been asleep.

"I know. But we know how much he means to you."  
"Really? Because I don't," said Paul, rubbing his eyes.

"Listen," said the doctor. "There's someone I think you might like to talk to."  
"It's not a psychiatrist, is it?" chuckled Paul.

"No, but I think it might help. Can I send him up?"  
"Sure," said Paul. "Just give me some time to sort myself out."  
The doctor passed him a towel. "There's a visitor's shower at the end of the ward."  
"Thanks," said Paul, moved by her kindness. He got steadily to his feet. He still felt a little shaky but regained his strength with every step. He was sure he would feel better for a shower.

* * *

Gavin was running around the main hall of the camp with a clipboard, checking lists and finding stray children and luggage. A few children were being collected by parents, but the majority had to catch busses, planes and trains, so the logistics were quite complicated. By mid afternoon, most of the children had left, but there were around twenty left, including Adrian Bisset. All but he were playing twenty questions. Adrian was sitting in the corner, leaning on his suitcase with his elbows. Gavin had finished packing his own things, although his journey was only to nearby Berkeley so he did not have a long journey ahead. He saw Adrian sitting in silence and alone, and felt very sorry for him. Instead of talking to Adrian, he talked to the others. They were all boys.

"Hi, guys!"

"Hello," said the group, almost in unison.  
"Listen, do you think you could encourage Adrian to be in your game?"  
There was a short discussion about who Adrian was; some of them obviously did not know him, and another about his friend, Alon. They all knew who he was."  
"Of course, we're sorry; we didn't notice him," said the spontaneously elected leader, a boy named Mike.

"I think that's what he's hoping," said Gavin. "But he needs some friends right now."  
"We're only here until dinner time," said another boy.

"No matter," said Gavin.

"Yeah, come on guys!" said Mike. He hopped up and went over to Adrian, alone. Gavin watched. Adrian seemed reluctant, but Mike wouldn't take no for an answer. Again, Gavin marvelled at the social maturity of these children. Soon, Adrian followed Mike back to the group and sat down. They did not place him under any pressure, and slowly Adrian began to join in. As he talked more, he shot Gavin a smile. Talking, about anything, really did make him feel better.

* * *

When Paul returned to Alon's cubicle, he occupied himself with tidying it. He arranged his cards neatly, and gently combed his hair, even though the nurses had clearly already done it. A few strands of his hair were stuck underneath the tape that held his eyes shut, and Paul gently teased it out with the end of his comb. He sat back in his chair again, and leaned back, looking up at the ceiling.

"Knock knock!" said a voice, breaking Paul out of his musings.

"Hello," said Paul, and stood to greet the man standing outside the cubicle. "I'm Paul Durant."

"Yes, I'm sorry, I have you at a disadvantage!" The man was cheerful, and smiling. He was dressed casually, in brown cords and a white shirt. His hair was styled to look messy, and he was young, about thirty. "I'm Rev. David, and I'm the hospital chaplain."  
Paul extended his hand silently; this was not what he had been expecting. He shook hands with the Reverend, and sat back down when David gestured for him to do so. David got out another chair from the stack just outside the cubicle.

"How's he doing?" said David, nodding towards Alon.

"No change, I'm afraid." Paul then realised he would have to explain everything that had happened to him.  
"He took a bad fall, or had a seizure or something, at the camp where I'm a senior counsellor. He's had two bleeds on the brain, and two surgeries. Now we wait." Paul took a deep breath.

David nodded to Paul, almost as if he already knew. "I didn't know everything, but I have met this young man already."  
"You have?"

"When he had his second surgery in I was in the theatre prep room with another child. When I saw them prepping him, I prayed for him."  
"He's Jewish, you know."  
"Yes, I know."  
"How?"  
"When they were getting him ready, they took off this." David gently pulled on the chain around Alon's neck to put it on the outside of his gown.  
"A Jewish star," said Paul.

"Actually, it's called a 'shield of David.' It is a sometimes seen as a symbol of protection."  
Paul smiled. He felt that this young man was wiser than his years. He was silent for about five minutes. David just sat sitting, smiling at Paul, without making direct eye contact. He was waiting for Paul to talk. "You know, I'm here for you, too."

Finally, Paul spoke. "I'm not a Christian."  
"I am here for man, every man, as well as for God," said David.

Paul felt weak and sickly again. "We got word just before his second surgery that both of his parents died in the hurricane up in Michigan."

"Awful. Just awful," said David, shaking his head. He too, was visibly upset.

Paul went into full swing. "Now he's been made a ward of the state of Michigan. I don't know what's going to happen to him; not only whether he'll live or die, but also where he'll end up, in a children's home or whatever. And they say he might have brain damage. Who'll want to adopt him? He's got no family, his community is all gone, his home is gone!"  
"How do you feel?"

"What do you mean?"  
"How does it make you feel?"  
"Sad, angry, upset! I feel helpless! I don't know what's going to happen to my little-" Paul cut himself off.

"It sounds to me like he has a family."  
"Me?"  
David nodded. "It seems to me like you and he have formed a very strong bond."

"He's a great kid. Do you know, and keep it to yourself,"  
"Of course."

"He's the kid who predicted the hurricane."  
"Really?"

"Really."

David looked awed. "Fascinating."  
"He has an amazing mind. And now look at him."  
"Do you feel guilty, Paul?"  
"Yes. Very guilty. I think if I had made more of a fuss about the storm, then his parents could have got away."  
"Did you do all you could? If you went back, could you have done anything different?"  
"I have been thinking about it a lot, and I don't think so."  
"So free yourself from the guilt. You are not to blame. The storm was a force of nature. Nothing you could have done would have stopped it."

Paul began to cry. "He's a wonderful child."  
"He is."  
"I don't know what's going to happen to him. My life is totally on hold. I can't leave him. I feel like I am all he has."

"Do you want to adopt him?"  
Paul was surprised. David was asking him all the questions he had been afraid to ask himself. "Yes."  
"Why don't you?"  
"I'm not married. I'm not Jewish. I'm Canadian, and ultimately would want to take him back to Canada. I don't think they'd allow that. I don't want to get either of our hopes up."

David eyed Alon, as if expecting him to be sat up, listening to the conversation. Paul saw his confusion.

"When he was first taken ill, it was at almost the exact same time, although we can't be pinpoint accurate, as the deaths of his parents. And when I told him they were dead, that's when he had the second bleed in his brain."  
"That isn't your fault."  
"No? I didn't have to tell him."  
"If I was lying there, and I could hear, I'd want to know."  
"Me too."  
"Let the guilt go, Paul. You don't deserve it."  
Paul shook his head. He cried louder for a few minutes, and David put his hand on his shoulder. When he stopped crying, Paul felt a great weight lifted from his shoulders. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know what to do."  
"It's alright, Paul. Nobody knows what to do. Waiting is a hard thing to do, especially when we fear the worst. You are not weak for being desperate. You are human."

"Thank you," said Paul.

David smiled at him. "Listen," he said. "Do you mind if I make some calls on your behalf? There are some people who might be able to help you. Both of you."  
"Who?"

"I have a friend who is a rabbi, and another who is a family law specialist. Maybe you could have a talk with them?"  
"A rabbi?"  
"He's a great man. He can advise you on learning about Judaism, if you so wish. But he is also well educated in aspects of the mind, and spirit. He can help you understand your own feelings, Alon's feelings, and the bond that has grown between you. I think it might help."  
"Okay," said Paul. He felt better again. Normally, religion would have been the last thing he would turn to in a time of crisis, but David had totally changed his perspective on his situation.

"Can I come back, see you again some time?" asked David.

"I'd like that!" said Paul, and wiped away the last of his tears before shaking hands with David and saying goodbye.

David nodded and quietly walked away.


	16. Spiritual Help

Chapter 16

"Hi," said Gavin, coming into Alon's cubicle with a suitcase.

Paul turned his head, and Gavin could see his exhaustion again. But his eyes were brighter. "Hi."  
"I brought his things."  
"Okay."

"Everyone's gone home. Adrian is staying locally with his dad, and Matthew says he'll try and bring him in to visit as much as he can."  
"That's great."

"I need to get back to Berkeley." Gavin spoke guiltily. "I'll try and get back at the weekend."  
"Thanks. I'd like that."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."  
"I mean really?"

"Much better. I've been talking to someone."  
"That's good."  
"Actually, it is."

Gavin nodded, not knowing what to say. He didn't want to leave either Paul or Alon, but needed to get his own affairs in order. He was trying not to feel bad about it.

"It's okay, you know," said Paul.

"Thanks," said Gavin.

"Go on."  
"Anything I can do?"  
"You can help me out actually."  
"Anything."  
"There's going to be an investigation into the predictions about the hurricane. Keep me posted. You hear anything about Alon's community, you let me know."  
"Sure thing."  
"Thanks."  
"Goodbye, Paul." Gavin spoke with sorrow.

"Goodbye." Paul shook his hand and patted his upper arm. Gavin smiled and left.

* * *

Later that day, Paul opened Alon's suitcase, and looked through the contents. There was a small, ornate cushion, that Paul took out and placed on Alon's bed. There was a stone carving of a lizard, which Paul placed on his bedside table. The few trinkets made it appear a little more homely. He also found a beautiful hand-made blanket, that Paul asked the doctor if he could substitute for Alon's hospital one. She agreed. Rummaging further through the contents, he found some books. One was entitled 'Principles of Entomology.' Paul grinned. He was not sure that it would be easy for him to read this one to Alon. Another was 'In Search of Schrödinger's Cat.' Paul laughed again. A nine year old was reading this! Paul had been considered something of a child prodigy, and he had not read this book, or at least understood it, until he was fifteen! And he was sure that Alon did understand it. He stood the books up on the bedside table. He found Alon's computer, but did not want to open it, at least not at this stage. He did not feel that opening his luggage was an invasion of Alon's privacy, but did feel that opening his computer would be. He found various other things, like Alon's spare glasses, asthma inhalers and such apart from clothes. But he finally came across a small box. It had a silver plate on the lid, with an inscription in Hebrew. Paul carefully opened it. There was a book inside, bearing the same inscription. It looked very beautiful, and Paul did not want to remove it from the box. He simply sat looking at it.

Paul was laying down on his trolley, trying to sleep, when a shadow in the space between the slightly open curtains caught his eye. He sat up, and saw a very tall figure, wearing a wide brimmed hat, and a long black cloak. Paul thought he looked quite young, but seemed older due to his attire.

"Greetings," said the man.

"Hello?" said Paul, taken a little by surprise.

"My name is Dovid, and I am a friend of David's. He said you might like to talk to me."

"Of course, I'm sorry." Paul now recognised him as a rabbi. "Paul Durant."  
The rabbi shook his hand and went over to Alon's bed. "Do you mind if I say a prayer?" he asked.

"Not at all, please," said Paul.

The rabbi stood near Alon's head, and whispered to Alon. Paul could not hear what he was saying. When he had finished, he turned back to Paul. "How are you doing?"

"I'm alright."  
"Really?"  
"I'm just- it's a lot to deal with."  
"It certainly is. You must give yourself credit."  
"I'm just worried about what's going to happen to the boy."

"I know the story. David and I are making some enquiries."  
"You're from the Jewish community. Would you be able to find him a family?"

"Yes, I think we could. Although, from our early enquiries, we can find nobody from Alon's own community who survived the disaster."

"But you could find him a home in California?"  
"Yes."  
Paul frowned. "So are you going to?" His look immediately softened; he had not meant to sound angry.

"If it comes to it, there are several families that might be able to take him in."  
"Even if he is brain damaged?"  
"Even then."  
"So you can find him a family? So why don't you call Michigan Social Services?"  
"At the moment, they have their hands rather full. Also, that would not help you."  
"What do you mean?"  
"You don't think you would make a good Father?"

"I don't think I would be allowed."  
"Why not?"  
"I am not married."  
"Plenty of parents are not married. Families break up, come back together, and unfortunately, parents die. Plenty of people manage to raise children alone. Myself, and my 6 brothers and sisters were all raised by mother, after my father died in an accident at work. It can be done."  
Paul smiled. He had wanted someone to tell him he could do it. "I'm not a US citizen."

"Plenty of people adopt internationally. I am sure that if you were approved as an adoptive parent that you would be allowed to take Alon to Canada."  
"I'm not Jewish."  
"Social services would want Alon to be with parents who would support Alon's religion and culture. Ideally, that would be with Jewish parents."  
Paul sighed. Of course a rabbi would say that.

"However, I understand that Alon is a very bright child. His Jewish learning is likely to be as advanced as his secular learning. I understand his parents were religious."  
"Yes."

"For my opinion, Alon is only a little over three years away from becoming bar mitzvah. Would you be able to support him while he continued his studies?"  
"Yes. I know there is a Jewish community in Montreal. That's where I live and work."

"You don't have to be Jewish to support Alon's religious and cultural development."  
"I'm willing to learn."  
"That's good."  
"What would I have to do?"  
"Well, probably the biggest issue is food. Alon might need to eat kosher food. There will need to be separate preparation facilities and utensils for milk and meat containing foods. He may also keep the Sabbath, on which he can do no work. I am not sure how observant his parents were, and I would not want to impose a higher level of observance than he was raised with. His Hebrew and Torah studies can be continued with community support."

Paul straightened up. "I can do that."

"If you want to do it, then you should do it. I can give you all the help you want. In fact, I brought some books for you." The rabbi handed Paul some books on Jewish living, religious observance, and a primer in the Hebrew language.

"Thankyou."

"No problem. I'm afraid I have to get back to LA, but I will return."  
"Thanks," said Paul, and rose to shake Dovid's hand.

"Do you have any questions for me?"

"Actually, can you tell me what this is?" asked Paul, holding up the little box.

The rabbi examined the box, and removed the little book. "It's a siddur. A prayer book. It has on the front 'Alon, son of Michael.' The message inside reads; 'Alon, our son. We are and always have been and will be, so proud of you. Lots of love, Ima and Aba.' That means 'Mom and Dad.'"

"That's beatiful," said Paul.

"It is dated only a few weeks ago."Paul took the book back. "That's the weekend before camp began."

"A parting gift."

"I'll keep this very safe. I know it will be precious to Alon."  
"I know you will," said the rabbi. He touched the brim of his hat, and left.

Paul placed the book carefully back in the box, and put it under one of Alon's hands.


	17. Like Old Friends

Chapter 17

Paul fell asleep on his trolley that night, face down in one of the books that Dovid had given him. The doctor had done blood tests on Paul, and found him to be anaemic, so advised him to rest. When he woke he felt refreshed. He had enjoyed what he had read of the book, and it had made him feel much better spiritually about the events of the last couple of weeks. It was a part of himself Paul had never explored, and he was glad he finally was.

* * *

Adrian arrived with his father, Matthew, mid-morning. Paul saw that Adrian was noticeably happier than when he had last seen him.

"Hi, Adrian, Matthew," said Paul.

"Hello," said Adrian, more cheerfully than Paul expected. Matthew nodded acknowledgement. Adrian went immediately over to Alon and took a small book from his pocket. It was an engineering manual on atomic pile propulsion, and Adrian began to read from it, adding a running commentary as he went. It made Paul smile.

"Do you want to grab a coffee?" asked Matthew.

"Sure," said Paul. His smile made his pale face seem healthier.

* * *

They left Adrian with Alon and headed for the cafeteria. Paul got them a coffee each, and they sat down at a table. Paul was unsure what to say to Matthew; although they had spoken on the videophone, they had never actually met.

"Good journey?" asked Paul.

"Yes, great. I came in by Helijet, and we're staying at a hotel not far from the camp site."  
"Yeah?"

"It's nice really. I'm used to being up north, in the cold!"

"You're a marine biologist, right?"  
"Yes."  
There was an uncomfortable silence. Paul broke it. "How's Adrian doing?"

"He's okay. To be honest, for a while there, he was more like before he went of to camp. Withdrawn, insular. I could see a real change in him over the time he was at camp when I spoke to him on the videophone. His smile got bigger every time. He's doing better again now. I think he's just feeling a little let down by life. He really loves Alon, you know."  
"I know."

"You know he asked if we could adopt him."  
"He did?"  
"Don't worry- I told him no. It's not that I wouldn't love to have him, it's just, I have a hard enough time providing for Adrian. It just wouldn't be fair on Alon. I just can't be there enough, especially since Alon is going to need a lot of taking care of if he wakes up."  
"When he wakes up."  
"Right, I'm sorry. Slip of the tongue."  
"It's okay."

Matthew smiled, apologetically. "How are you bearing up? I hear you have not been so well yourself."

"Nothing, really. I'm just tired. The waiting, it's terrible."

"I know." Matthew shook his head sadly "I know."

Paul raised his eyebrows questioningly at Matthew.

"My wife- Adrian's mother. She died, eight years ago."  
"I'm sorry."  
"She had a neurological disease. I waited, at her bedside, for seven months."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to feel sorry for myself."  
"Hey, don't feel sorry for me, I sure don't! She was a fine human being, and she went before her time, but there's nothing I could have done about it."  
Paul nodded. He felt like he had known Matthew for years rather than days. Matthews knowing look told him he felt the same way.

Matthew could see Paul getting upset. He looked fatigued and weak. "You know, sometimes bad things happen to good people. It's not right, and it's not fair, but it happens, and it's nobody's fault."

"Thanks," said Paul. That was what he had been wanting to hear.

"So what's going to happen to the little guy?"  
"I think I'm going to try to adopt him."  
"Good for you!"

"There are plenty of things in my way, but I'm going to give it my all."

"What's in your way?"  
"I'm not married, I'm not a US citizen, and I'm not Jewish."  
"You're Canadian."

"Yes."  
"From Quebec?"  
"Montreal."  
"Ah. I work in Churchill a lot, in Manitoba, and sometimes right up into Nunavut. I do some research work for the World Whale Watch charity, and I've done some marine biology work for WASP up there."  
"Sounds good."

"Sorry. I was just going to say that I don't see what your being Canadian has to do with anything. People adopt from abroad all the time."

"Yes, but they tend to adopt into the US, not out of it."  
"I guess."  
"Anyway, I have some people working on it for me."

"I wish you success!"

"Thanks."

"Can I ask, where does Adrian go when you work away?"  
"I own a house in Michigan, where Adrian was born. A couple with whom I am really close live there, and take care of Adrian when I'm gone. It's not ideal; they're in their seventies now, but we manage."

"Are they okay?"  
"They were on holiday in Florida, of all places. But I hear the house has only minor damage. The area wasn't so badly hit."

"Good."

Paul smiled. He was slightly relieved when it occurred to him that he didn't have to be the perfect parent, just a parent, to Alon.

"Adrian tells me that Alon is the son of Michael Markowitz, the engineer."  
"Yes, that's right. Is that important?"  
"I don't think so. It's just that his father was working on some pretty serious stuff before, well, you know. The trade press is already talking about it."  
"About what?"  
"Whether all his research was lost, or whether it is going to be recovered. His knowledge would be worth a great deal of money to someone.  
Paul gradually drank his coffee as they talked about more cheery subjects; the quirky differences between Americans and Canadians; ice hockey; how cold it was up north, and whether the Queen ought to be the head of state. They were like old friends.

* * *

Eventually, they made their way back up to Adrian and Alon. He was still reading, and talking about the book. Adrian was making enough conversation for both of them. By now it was mid-afternoon, and he was almost all the way through the book.

"Come on, kiddo, time to let Alon get some rest!" said Matthew.

"But I'm almost finished!" complained Adrian.

"Well, you can leave him something to look forward to!" said Paul.

Adrian half smiled, and folded over the corner of the page he was on. "Tomorrow, buddy!" he said cheerfully, and went to his father's side.  
"Tomorrow, Paul!" said Matthew.

"Goodbye," said Adrian. He left with his father.

Paul could see what Matthew had meant, Adrian was coming back to himself.


	18. Hanging by a Hair

Chapter 19

Paul was rudely awakened the next morning by the sound of the alarms on Alon's monitors seemingly all going off at once. Before he could rush to summon help, the room was filled with people. They surged around Alon, shouting and shuffling, and apart from isolated words, Paul could not make out what they were saying. He did not like being ignored; pushed out of the circle like this, but he knew he had to let them work. One of them would explain the situation to him when they had time.

After about ten minutes, the doctor sat down on the trolley next to him. Her face was graver than usual, and most of the medics working on Alon were still there. Though the alarms had stopped, the monitor beeps were no longer sounding with the dull regularity that Paul had grown accustomed to. . Paul was worried. It made his stomach turn. He was now so used to being in a heightened state of concern that anything extra affected him badly.

"More bad news?" asked Paul, steadying himself.

"We think Alon has pneumonia," said the doctor, sighing.

Paul swung his arms folded, and dropped his chin to his chest. This was grave news indeed. In recent years, antibiotic-resistant strains of almost every kind of infection had emerged. The research scientists at the WHO could not keep up. These days, even what had previously been a mild infection could now be a life-threatening illness. Paul swallowed and rubbed his chin.

"What's the prognosis?" he asked.

"We've got him on broad spectrum antibiotics already, and we had started him on immune boosters already, just in case. We've got a couple more tests to do, and then we'll identify the bacterium responsible."  
"What then?"  
"We get our lab chemists to synthesise a siderophore antibiotic matched to the specific strain. If they manage it, it will work. But it is a difficult thing to do; identify a bacterium which may never have been seen before, find something that kills it, attach it to something that can get into the cell, and then give it to the patient."  
"But they can do it?"  
"It's more a case of if they can do it in time, I'm afraid."

"I see." Paul stopped rubbing his face; he was making it sore. He looked up as a technician came in, pushing a trolley full of electronic equipment. The doctor patted Paul's shoulder, and stood up.

"We'll keep you posted."

Paul nodded; he knew she would.

Paul sat back and looked back and forth toward Alon as the technician unshipped his equipment. He picked up a white plastic box and the doctor held it over Alon's chest. A light flashed and the machine grumbled as a coloured picture emerged from an aperture in the side. The medics huddled around the picture and spoke for some minutes, starting quite quietly but growing louder. They seemed to come to some sort of agreement, and the doctor held out her hand to accept another piece of equipment from the technician. This one looked rather more severe. It was a 30 cm metal rod, with a plastic handle at the top, and various circuitries and wiring connecting this handle to a transparent point at the bottom. It glowed red. Paul started rubbing his face again as he watched, unable to look away. He had no idea what it was for, but it did not look pleasant. The doctor picked up the device and unzipped Alon's gown at the top to expose his chest. Paul felt a shiver as he saw the perfectly-timed rise and fall of the little boy's chest matched with the oxygen delivery equipment behind him. The doctor touched the tip of the device to his chest on the right side, and it glowed brighter. The tip disappeared beneath Alon's skin, and coloured lights seemed to indicate it was doing something. The doctor pushed it into Alon's chest quite along way, before the machine beeped and she slowly removed it. Paul craned his neck to see; he did not really want to but could not look away. When the device was almost completely removed, the tip, now again visible, had turned blue, and the device slowly closed the wound behind it. The doctor pressed a button on the handle, and a little drawer slid out. From this, she took a small glass disc, with a number on it.  
"Get this to the lab, stat!" she said, and one of the other medics took the disc, and jogged out. The doctor followed, giving a parting smile to Paul. Although it was weak and forced, Paul appreciated it.

Gradually, the others began to leave, but two medics stayed, and were fixing long poles between the floor and ceiling. Wanting to have a look, Paul moaned as he tried to straighten up. He felt stiff and uncomfortable. He glanced at his watched and realised he had been locked into this position for over five hours. It was 1 pm. He hauled himself to his feet, and stretched his back. It clicked. He had pins and needles in his legs and so shuffled about, trying to get rid of it. The doctor returned and looked over her glasses at Paul's strange dance. He stopped when he saw her, and stepped closer.

"What news?" he asked.

"It's as we feared. Alon has severe pneumonia in both of his lungs."  
"Is it a resistant strain?"

"I'm afraid so. It's a particularly nasty one; giving us almost no warning before it developed very rapidly."  
"What are you going to do?"  
"These guys here are putting up a sterile enclosure. It will keep the air around him sterile, so he won't get any more infections, nor can the infection he has be transmitted."  
"Why wasn't he in this enclosure before?"  
"It is only used for the highest-risk patients. It not only kills bad bacteria, but good ones as well. This can lead to all kinds of other problems, and ultimately immune system compromise. We don't expose people to it unnecessarily."

"I see." Paul was ashamed of his hostility.

"You can still touch him, and talk to him as normal. Just be aware that if you enter the enclosure, it will affect you, too."  
"What about you?"

"We will switch off the field to tend to Alon. But it must remain on as constantly as possible to provide benefit."  
"Okay," said Paul. "So is he going to be okay?"  
The doctor sighed. She looked at Paul and thought about trying to beat around the bush, but knew he would appreciate her honesty. "The easiest way I can put this is, if his life was hanging by a thread before, it's a hanging by a hair now. This is about as sick as I have ever seen anyone who has come through."  
"But people have come through?" Paul was trying to boost his own hope.  
"Yes, but I have to say, not too often. We'll do everything we can, and-"  
"Keep me posted; I know," interrupted Paul.

The doctor smiled, wanly, and left.

The medics working on the enclosure brought it to life, with a loud 'zat' sound. After an initial flash, just from looking one could not determine there was any kind of field there.

"Can I go in?" asked Paul, as they went to leave.

"The doctor spoke to you?" one of them replied.

"Yes. She explained."  
"Sure." They left.

Paul went up to the nearest boundary of the enclosure, and tentatively put his hand in, then his arm, then stepped inside. It felt strange. It seemed like the air was charged; like before a summer thunderstorm, only more so. Also, the air smelt faintly of the ozone you can smell standing next to a photocopier. He edged closer to Alon. He looked as white as his sheets, in contrast to his bright, beautiful blanket. The siddur had moved down the bed, away from Alon's hand, so Paul quickly replaced it. He touched Alon's hot, sweaty head, and whispered to him. "I'm sorry, Alon. I'm sorry for everything that has happened to you. It must seem like you've lost everything. But you haven't. You have people who love you. I love you, Alon, and need you here. You have a fine mind, the finest I have ever known, and the world needs you. You have to fight this, Alon. You have to fight this and come back to this world." Paul was crying and his voice grew from whispering to quiet sobbing. "You come back to me and I'll take care of you. We'll take care of your parents, and you can come with me to Montreal." Paul was now talking to himself as much as to Alon. "I'll show you the Parc Olympique, and the churches, museums, and galleries. We'll rocket-pack up the mountain, and back down again. You'll love it. And if you like I'll take you up north and we can go dog sledding and see polar bears and whales." Now Paul was crying. "Come on, Alon. Come on."


	19. Silent Prayers

Chapter 19

Paul kept up his bedside vigil, standing in the sterile enclosure, for several hours. Despite feeling the return of his earlier weakness, he would not move until he was manhandled away by staff.

"Let go!" he protested.

"Look, man," said one of the orderlies. "You're going to end up really hurting yourself. You don't want that now, do you?"  
At that moment the doctor came in, and she could see from the harsh look on Paul's face that the orderlies talking to him as if he were a child was going to achieve very little. She gave them a look, at which they let Paul go, and she held out her arm, bidding him to sit down. He did, and she joined him. She nodded to the orderlies, and they left.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Alright?" said Paul angrily. "Alright?"

"Of course; I'm sorry." She knew herself that it was most annoying to be asked if you were alright when quite clearly you were not, particularly if it was something you were asked often. She let Paul sit quietly for a while, to calm down. It was he who spoke first.

"Look, Dr. –" Paul was embarrassed at not remembering her name.  
"Thomas. I think we know each other well enough by now, you can call me Stella."

Paul smiled a little but then pushed the gesture aside. "Any news?"  
"I'm afraid so. Alon has 3 mutations of a bacterial strain. We're doing everything we can, but-"  
"He's getting worse, isn't he?"

"I'm afraid so."  
Paul hung his head and Stella patted his arm.

"We're giving him immune boosters, and laser light therapy so that the infection won't get into his bloodstream and spread. But the infection is damaging his lungs, and obviously that is a serious problem."  
"Can't he have a lung transplant?"  
"I'm afraid that's very unlikely. Even if we could find some, in time, that are a good match, with his sepsis, and weakened state, Alon would not survive such major surgery. It's really not an option."  
"I see," said Paul, nodding exaggeratedly.

"So we have to just-"  
"Wait and see, I know."

Stella could see that Paul wished to be alone, and left without speaking. She went back to the ward desk.

"Did you call the chaplaincy?" Stella asked one of the nurses.

"I did, but they say the Rev. is away in Michigan."  
"Michigan?" said Stella. "Well, we'll try again tomorrow."

Paul stayed in the cubicle almost 24/7, leaving only to wash, occasionally to eat, and to use the videophone. He was keeping Matt and Adrian up to date, and calling in to work in Montreal to let his concerned colleagues know what was happening. For the next four days, Alon's life hung by a hair. He had a daily crisis, bringing the medics rushing in to work on him for an hour or so, but each time, he rallied enough for them to leave him again, returning every 15 minutes to check on him. The emotional roller coaster of watching all this was wreaking havoc on Paul's already tattered nerves. He found himself crying often, and was always tired, even after a few hours of sleep.

On the fourth day, Paul was still sitting on his trolley, staring at Alon's face, willing him awake, when he received two visitors.

"Paul?"

"Yes?" replied Paul, weakly. He stood, and turned to receive them. It was David, the chaplain, and Dovid, the Rabbi. "Hello!" he said, cheered a little by their visit.

They all shook hands, and while Paul sat again on his trolley, the two others pulled a chair each from the stack in the corner. They formed a circle with Alon and Paul. David glanced over at Alon and was struck by how much worse the little boy looked than last time he had seen him. His skin was mottled white and purple, and his lips were as pale as his skin. His arms were like pincushions, and his ears, pushed down by the bandages, not looked sore and cracked. His chest rattled as the machines breathed for him. David swallowed and tried not to convey his despair to Paul. He glanced over at Dovid, and the look he gave back told him that he too had looked at Alon and assumed the worst. Now one of them had to ask a stupid question; David decided that it might as well be him.

"How is he?" asked David, gingerly.

Paul breathed out. "Hanging on, just."  
"That's good," said David, trying to sound positive.

Paul hung his head. "They're waiting for him to die."

"What?" asked David.  
"They're trying to produce a treatment for the 3 mutant bacterial strains that Alon is infected with. They don't think they'll manage it in time. They don't think he'll survive."  
"Infections?"  
"Pneumonia."  
The two religious men looked at each other, and then in other directions, both whispering. Paul assumed they were praying, and for a reason he did not understand, this made him angry. He clenched his fists and began breathing through his teeth.

David looked up and saw his face. "Are you okay, Paul?"  
Paul felt weak again, and fought for control of his emotions. But he was tired, and he lost it. "Are you praying?" he growled.

"Yes," said David, and Dovid nodded.

"What for? You're asking God to make him better? Why do you have to ask? Why is he doing this to a helpless little boy?"  
"You think God is doing this?" asked Dovid.

"Well, don't you? If there is an all seeing, all-powerful God, then sure, it must be him, mustn't it?"

Dovid shrugged his shoulders, but in such a way as not to be disrespectful. "I'm afraid I cannot speak for God, Paul."

Paul punched the wall. He was only recently beginning to tap into the spiritual side of himself and now he didn't know what to think. "So innocent a person there never has been! Why would God cause such suffering? I don't want to know a God who can do this to a little boy." Paul was crying now, and it seemed to calm him. David and Dovid looked at each other, and then to Paul, without speaking.

"Aren't you going to say something?" asked Paul, looking at Dovid.

"What would you have me say?"  
"I don't know! Why don't you go on about how this isn't God's fault and give me some spiel about free will and testing times and stuff?"  
"Because it would be meaningless."

Paul did not expect this response. "What?"  
"You are hurting now, in a dark place. What good would it do for me to tell you that 'God works in mysterious ways' and that this is all part of some grand plan on the part of the almighty? For one thing, I wouldn't believe it, and for another, neither would you."

"You wouldn't?"  
"The world is the world. I don't claim to know why we are here, why we live, and why we die. I don't know what Alon is here to give the world. I don't know why this is happening to him. His story is difficult, and very sad, even for me, a stranger. If you want to be angry, be angry. But that won't help Alon."  
"I know, I know." Paul sniffed and wiped his tear-soaked face on his cuffs. "What should I do, then? Should I pray for him?"  
"Only if you want to."  
"You don't think praying might help him?"  
"It might help you," said David.

Both religious men looked at Paul sympathetically, and he understood what they were trying to say. This was not about God, nor religion. It was about Alon. David and Dovid were there for them, not for God. Paul was touched, and also embarrassed by his previous manner.

"I'm sorry, guys."  
"You have nothing to apologise for," said Dovid.

The men sat for an hour in silence, looking at each other, and at Alon. Though they did not speak their looks and smiles were a conversation of sorts; a comforting one. Paul felt much better. When they left, Paul leaned back on his trolley, and began to think. He was praying in his head, though to nobody or being in particular. It helped him to collect his thoughts. He laughed and cried, and sighed as he went through the different emotional challenges he had been faced with recently, and it made him feel much stronger. Doing so was tiring, however, and as he was finishing his thoughts, he fell asleep.


	20. No Extraordinary Measures

Chapter 20

Paul woke early the next morning, and was relieved to find the Alon's condition had not worsened. He went for a shower and got changed, then settled on his trolley with one of his books.

At nine o'clock, he was joined by David and Dovid, and another man whom he did not know.

"Paul, this is Alexander Chick from Michigan Family Services," said David.

Paul stood and extended his hand, gingerly.

"Hello," said Alex.

"You're here about Alon?" asked Paul. He was nervous; he was not sure what the social worker was there to do.

"Yes. I understand that you wish to adopt him?"

Paul breathed in, hard, and nodded. David smiled and put his hand on his shoulder.

"Right. Well there are a few things we need to discuss."

Paul sat as he was beckoned, and Alex snapped open his briefcase.

"We'll leave you to it," said Dovid, and he left with David.

"Well, I've read and heard a great deal about you, Paul. So, I guess the most important question is; why do you want to adopt Alon?" asked Alex.

Paul sighed. He had been rehearsing this moment. "Because I love him. Dearly. Like he was my own son. I feel a bond with him. A connection. I can't really explain it better. And he's a smart boy, very smart. I can help him; teach him. I can give him what he needs. And I'm learning about Judaism-"  
"I am satisfied that you can take care of Alon's spiritual needs," said Alex.

"I can be his family."

Alex smiled. He was pleased. Paul seemed very dedicated. But he was also a little concerned. Paul did not seem to accept that Alon was unlikely to make a full recovery.

"You know Alon is very sick," said Alex.

"Yes. But I am sure he will get better. And I will be there to help him all the way."

"And if he doesn't?" asked Alex, reluctantly.

"I will be there for him. Until the end."

Alex was relieved. "Well, there are a few legal formalities to go through, but I will recommend state approval."  
Paul smiled widely. Then a though occurred to him for the first time. "What if this isn't what Alon wants?" he asked.

"To be brutally honest, Paul, we have a great many children who need new families, and lots of work to do. I have been in contact with a great many people, all of whom have seen the bond between you, and think you will be a great parent, and Alon has no family, or even family friends."

Paul smiled a little.

"Well, as I say, there are some legal formalities to go through. You intend to take him back to Canada?"  
"Yes."

"When would that be?"  
"As soon as I could arrange his transfer to a hospital in Montreal. If he was well enough to travel, I guess."  
"I will speak to my colleague at Immigration Canada."  
"Thank you." Paul sniffed.

Alex smiled, stood, and shook Paul's hand. "These forms, I need you to read and sign. I'll come back for them tomorrow."

"Thank you!" said Paul, fighting back tears.

Alex left.

Paul pored over the papers as doctors came in and out to treat Alon. The forms would transfer parental rights and responsibilities to Paul, subject to consent by the State of Michigan. Paul's heart was heavy with the weight of the situation, but he was more than happy to be carrying it. He paused before signing at the bottom. He rose and went to stand next to Alon, inside the sterile area.

"Alon, I'd very much like for us to be a family. Is that okay with you?"

Paul sighed. He had not really expected a response, but he had hoped. He went back to his papers and signed.

The rest of Paul's day was spent reading to Alon, and making various phonecalls to Canada to try and make plans for the future, should he be able to take Alon home. It tired him and he settled in the early evening for a nap.

He was disturbed at 9 o'clock by the sound of an alarm and a rush of activity. This time, unlike in the past, somebody took the trouble to explain to him what was going on.

"Alon's in cardiac arrest," said the nurse.

"Oh, God!" said Paul.

"They're trying to get his heart beating again."

Paul bit into his knuckles as the medical team worked for over an hour. Finally, they succeeded. Most of the team left, but Stella remained to talk to Paul.

"More bad news?" said Paul. His elation that Alon's heart had once again started beating had been quickly replaced by fear at the look on Stella's face.

"I'm afraid so."  
"I'm ready."  
"Alon is now so seriously ill, we do not expect him to survive."  
Paul shoved his nose and mouth into his hands. "How long?" he whispered.

"We can't say. But we are of the opinion that we should not attempt to prolong Alon's life with extraordinary methods."  
"What?"

"His brain is damaged, and his heart is very weak."  
Paul sighed. "I can't make these kinds of decisions."

"I know. But I thought you should know."  
"Thank you, Stella."

Stella nodded and left. Paul once again maintained a vigil all night, reading to Alon.

Alex Chick returned the next day, and was disappointed to hear the news about Alon.  
"I think they want permission to let him die!" said Paul.

"It's your decision, Paul. Not theirs."

"But-"  
Alex took the signed papers from the table. "You are now Alon's adoptive father."

Paul cried and thanked him.

"This pack has everything you need- advice and counselling numbers, all sorts of contact details. Normally you would go through a programme, but these are special circumstances we are dealing with here. We have hundreds of Michigan children who need new homes. But we still can give you the support you need. There's also a pack from the Canadian Adoption Service, who will give you anything they can. There are some forms in there from Canadian Immigration, too."

"Thanks."

Paul and Alex talked for over an hour about Paul's hopes and fears. All the time Paul glanced over at Alon, feeling his life slipping away. He was paying less and less attention to Alex.  
"You know what? I think you two should have some time together," said Alex. "My number is in the pack. Keep in touch, Paul."

"I will."

Alex left.

Before long, Stella was back, asking again about withholding extraordinary measures to save Alon's life. Paul refused, and she left after looking over Alon's chart. Paul felt betrayed. He had built up so much faith and trust in Stella, and now she was going against him. But he was also overcome with the enormity of his situation. He was a father.


	21. Leaving LA

Chapter 21

Paul paced up and down for the rest of the day. He did not eat or drink, and by evening, felt his physical weakness returning. Emotionally, he was a wreck, and in the end he had to lie down.

He woke in the early hours of the morning, having had nightmares about Alon that disturbed his sleep. He went over to Alon's bed, and knelt at the foot of it, just outside the sterile field.

Paul began to pray, and to cry. All he had recently learned about God and about himself stormed in his head. He was angry. How could God do this to a child? In his mind he screamed as the tears ran down his face. When he could cry no more, he fell silent, and became apologetic. He was weakened by this, and fell asleep leaning on the bed.

* * *

He woke once again, just as day broke. He was resting the side of his head on the end of the bed, not caring that he was in the sterile field. He scratched at his face. Something was pawing at him. He looked up, and then leapt to his feet as he could hardly believe his eyes. Alon lay awake, blinking.

"Alon!" screamed Paul. He ran into the corridor. "He's awake! He's awake! Thank God!" He ran back to Alon when he heard a rush of footsteps. "Someone's coming Alon! Hang in there!" Paul realised he was hyperventilating and stopped talking. He held his hand over his mouth, and breathed deeply for a while.  
"Welcome back, Alon. It's good to see you."

Alon carried on blinking in the same chaotic manner. He was not looking at Paul, just looking into space. His left arm and leg twitched a little. Paul was not disappointed; this was a very big step.

Stella appeared, with another doctor whom Paul had not seen before, and a whole crowd of other medics. He was again almost pushed aside, but this time he wedged himself in at the head of Alon's bed as soon as they turned off the field, and held the little boy's hand while the team worked.

"Paul?" asked Stella when they were finished.

"Yes?" replied Paul excitedly. He was expecting good news, but he frowned when the look on Stella's face indicated the opposite.

"Alon is recovering well from the pneumonia. He still needs the tube in, but it seems that the drugs we gave him are working."

"Thank God," said Paul. But Stella's face told him there was a 'but', and he stared at her.

Stella sighed. "Alon is showing signs of brain damage. He is uncommunicative-"  
"Well he can't talk with a tube in his throat!" said Paul, interrupting.

"He does not follow simple instructions. He does not seem to understand. He has some paralysis down his left side. He has loss of muscle tone and motor control. His eyes don't focus."  
"Hang on," said Paul. He put his hand into his jacket pocket, hanging on the back of one of the chairs. He pulled out Alon's glasses, and wiped them with his sleeve. He went over to Alon and placed them carefully on his face.

Stella approached Alon and held out her pen, performing a focus test on Alon's eyes. She looked over at Paul and shook her head. "No effect," she said, sadly.

"So what now?" asked Paul.

"Well, his lungs are recovering, so eventually, if he can start to breathe on his own, we can take out the tube."  
"So he could go home?"

"He would require 24 hour care, Paul."  
"I could hire nurses."  
"That would be an option."  
The two sat in silence for some minutes.

"This is going to be long term?" asked Paul.

"I would say so, yes."  
"In this day and age, we cannot cure a simple bump on the head?" Paul sounded upset.

"It was a lot more than that, Paul. And we are doing everything we can. As soon as possible, we will send a physiotherapist and occupational therapist to work with you and Alon."  
"Okay. And then I can take him home?"  
"He won't be able to go home for a few months yet."  
"I don't mean to my house, I mean back to Montreal."  
"I will consult with the rest of the team that is caring for Alon, but he cannot travel just yet. I would prefer to wait until he has been extubated."

"Right. But that will be soon?"  
"At his current rate of recovery, a week or so, but it is difficult to be precise."  
"I can start making arrangements?"  
"Yes. I will also do the same this end, okay?" Stella put her hand on Paul's shoulder, and he smiled. She went to leave, but turned to him just before. "The sterile field is off now; you can sit next to him as long as you like."

Paul smiled again. He took out one of the books and sat down as Stella walked out. He looked over at Alon's cold, unresponsive eyes, but his heart warmed. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Alon was wearing his glasses again, and Paul was looking down at the little boy he knew.

* * *

Alon was indeed extubated a week later, but still had an oxygen requirement. His physical state was otherwise unchanged. He still required IV drugs, so as Paul and the hospital were arranging transfer to Montreal, they had to have him accompanied by a team of nurses and a doctor. He was to be flown into Dorval by helijet, and transferred to L'Hopital de Montreal pour Enfants. Paul would accompany him all the way. However, his new found hope was ebbing away, as Alon failed to make much progress at all.

* * *

On the day of the transfer, Matthew and Adrian came to see Alon again. Adrian talked to Alon, and tried to get him to respond, and read to Alon while Paul and Matthew talked.

"Adrian and I are headed for Churchill in six days."  
"Churchill?"  
"I've got some work to do up there."  
"You're not leaving Adrian with your friends?"  
"Not anymore. I think he's old enough now to come with me. He could learn a lot, too. And my friends have decided to go permanently to Florida. There's not much left of the house."  
"I suppose so."

Paul looked at the ground.  
"You know, Churchill isn't so far from Montreal," said Matthew.

Paul shed a tear. "Thanks, man."

Matthew put his arm around his shoulders. "Any time, buddy. Any time."  
Paul rallied. "Hey, they have phones up there in the middle of nowhere?"

"Yeah! And indoor plumbing, too!" joked Matthew.

The joked around for a couple of hours, which raised Paul's spirits, until Adrian and Matthew had to leave.

"Come on, son. Alon and Paul have to get packed up."  
"We'll see you in Canada, Alon!" said Adrian. "You can come and play with the dogs in the snow!"

Paul sighed; Adrian really believed that would happen. He and Matthew shook hands. Then they left.

* * *

Paul sat down for a few minutes, looking at Alon from across the room. Then he began to pack. He realised then how much of a home this place had become. There was all of Paul's things from camp, all of Alon's things; books, clothes, papers, trinkets, ornaments, endless paper coffee cups, everything. He packed up a few things and disposed of a great deal of rubbish.

Stella came in. "I just wanted to say goodbye, and wish you well."  
"Thank you," said Paul.

Stella seemed uncomfortable. "You know," she fumbled, "everything I did, I did from a medical position, with Alon's best interests at heart."

"I know," said Paul, and looked at her kindly. "I am sorry that I have not been myself. I could never have imagined this kind of pressure."  
"I wish you and Alon all the happiness in the world, Paul, and I know you'll do the very best for him."

Paul nodded, and fought back the tears. He and Stella hugged, and without further words, she left.

* * *

The Medevac team arrived to prepare Alon for transportation. They changed him from his gown into a pair of pyjamas. He did not react at all. While they were doing this they found the siddur tucked under his hand. One of the nurses handed it to Paul.

"Can't he keep it?" asked Paul.

"Well, he shouldn't really-"  
"Don't you let kids keep a cuddly toy or something when they fly?"

"I suppose so," said the nurse. "But keep an eye on it."

"Of course," said Paul.

Two helijet medical crew arrived with a yellow trolley to take Alon on. He was lifted, covered with blankets and strapped in, with his siddur under his hand. They hung his IVs on a stand, and put him on bottled oxygen. Paul picked up his bags and followed as the crew headed for the roof, and the waiting helijet. They were loaded on, and Paul sat in a seat by Alon's head. As they took off, he starting talking to Alon about the workings of the helijet. But they had not been in the air for ten minutes when Alon's eyes closed.

"What's wrong with him?" said Paul, panicked.

"Don't worry," soothed the doctor. "He's asleep."

Paul breathed relief. He was glad Alon was sleeping. That, at least, was normal.


	22. Impostor!

Chapter 22

The helijet flight was smooth, as was the hospital transfer. It was all over rather quickly, and soon Paul found himself alone again with Alon, who was still asleep. This time, they were in a more private room. It was decorated with cheerful cartoon characters, and a large mural on the back wall had musical notes and song lyrics. Even the bedding was cheerful and brightly coloured. It seemed a much happier place.

Paul found it comforting to be speaking French again. He could speak English fluently, and had grown up bilingual, but French was more homely to him. The machines dispensing snacks and soft drinks were the same ones that he had seen in California, but the signage in French made it seem somehow better. He sat down and sighed deeply. There were newspapers, magazines and children's comics spread on a table in the corner. There were some English ones, but he picked up a copy of 'Le Soleil' and settled back in a chair. Before long, he was sleeping too.

* * *

When he woke it was morning, and on rising he could see that Alon had been tended to. He was awake, and still unresponsive. His eyes seemed vacant and expressionless. Paul stroked his hair, and then had an idea.  
"Alon, when you are well enough to go home, you'll need at least a little French. Do you speak French, Alon?" asked Paul, as if he expected a response. Paul sat down next to him and began to read him the news from Le Soleil.

* * *

Around mid-morning, a nurse came in, and offered Paul a white plastic bag containing towels and toiletries.  
"The parent's facilities are just outside the ward. There is a kitchen, bathrooms, showers, laundry, videophones, a computer, TV, and books. You can read in there, or bring them in here." She looked over at the corner. "Sorry, we don't have a bed for you yet, but you will have one by this evening."  
"Thank you," said Paul. Now he felt like a parent. The nurse smiled and left. Paul smiled; even the nurses' scrubs were colourful and decorative. He thought he might find it difficult to stay gloomy here.

* * *

Later, a doctor came to see him. He looked at Alon's chart, and smiled at him, touching his arm. Paul thought this was a lovely thing to do.  
"Hello," said the doctor, extending his hand. "I'm Doctor Guillaume."  
Paul shook his hand. "Pleased to meet you."  
"I am sorry I did not introduce myself earlier; I did not wish to disturb your sleep."  
"That's quite alright. I probably could have used the rest."  
"I read in Alon's chart that you yourself have been unwell of late?"

"I'm fine. I just got a little run down."  
"I understand, Mr Durant-"  
"Please, call me Paul."  
"As you wish. I understand, Paul. But you must keep yourself healthy in order to help your son."  
"My son?" asked Paul, surprised.

"You are not his adoptive father?"  
"Yes, but I have only been his father for a week. It is still a little strange to hear people say it."

Dr. Guillaume went back to Alon's chart and flipped through pages right to the end. He read through some pages near the back, and nodded to himself. "I see," he said when he had finished. "This is a very sad story."  
Paul simply nodded and looked at the ground.

"You must look after yourself, Paul. Anything we can do, ask and we shall try and help you."

Paul nodded. "What is the plan for Alon?"

"Okay," said the doctor, pulling a chair over towards Paul. He tugged at the knees of his trouser and sat down. "Tomorrow, the rehabilitation team will come to see Alon."  
"Rehabilitation team?"  
"Yes. There is a speech and language therapist, physiotherapist, occupational therapist, rehabilitation technologist, and a psychologist. They will all assess Alon, and then together decide on a plan of action for his treatment and ultimate rehabilitation."  
"That's great!"

"It is likely to be a long road, Paul. Alon's brain damage is significant. He may never recover completely."  
"But he'll get better than this?"

"I hope so, Paul. We will certainly do everything we can."

"So, a big day tomorrow?"

"Yes, indeed."  
The two men smiled at each other and the doctor departed.

* * *

Once Alon was asleep again, Paul went into the parent's area. He showered, did some laundry, and sat down at the videophone. He called his research lab at the university. His friend and colleage Pierre DuVivier answered.

"Paul!"

"Pierre. I'm back."  
"In Canada?"  
"In Montreal."  
"Great. Can I come and see you? We've had some real breakthroughs while you've been gone, and I have a whole bunch of your mail. There's some government stuff in here, too. It looks important. Shall I bring it along?"  
"I'm not at home."  
"No?"

"I'm at the children's hospital."  
"With the little guy? I heard he was getting out of hospital."  
"No, he was just transferred."  
"Oh. Well I can come there if you like."  
Paul sighed. "Sure. Why not? I could use the distraction. I'll be along this evening."  
"Okay, Pierre."

Pierre signed off, and Paul got up. He got his clothes from the drier and headed back to the ward.

* * *

As Paul got to Alon's room, he saw a person inside, who seemed to be talking to him. As he got closer, he saw that there was something not quite right about their clothing. Sure, it looked like a doctor, but it looked like a doctor from another hospital. They weren't wearing the bright colours and cartoon character scrubs that every other member of staff was wearing, but simple blue scrubs. Paul paused, and then walked on. Something did not seem right to him. He paused at the door, and thought he saw the person slap Alon's face. Part of him thought that there must be a rational explanation for such a thing, but he opened the door and stood in it with a look of anger on his face. The stranger was utterly surprised and jumped back, away from Alon. He was afraid.

"Who are you?" asked Paul, in a less than pleasant tone.

The man stared at him in panic, and said nothing. He looked around, like he wanted to run, but Paul blocked his only exit.  
"Can I see your ID tag?" asked Paul.

The man's eyes turned wild, and he looked over at Alon. Paul followed his gaze, and saw the boy's reddened face. The man _had_ done something to him. Paul realised to late that he had been distracted. The man ran at him, with incredible strength, and hit Paul in the chin with his fist. Paul went down, and fought the swimming in his head to get up again. The staff on the ward had now seen the commotion, and several came running.

"Stop him!" yelled Paul. "That man! He's not a doctor! Stop him! He's done something to Alon!"

Several staff members gave chase, while one rang for security, and two others accompanied Paul back into Alon's room.

Paul waited impatiently as the two doctors checked Alon over. As they did, Paul looked carefully at the ID badges that hung from their sides. They were genuine but Paul's suspicions were heightened and he felt like a wild animal.

"Alon is fine, Mr Durant," said one of the doctors after some minutes.

"His face!" said Paul.

"He has been slapped. But there is no damage. It will fade."  
"Why would someone do that?"  
"Perhaps they were trying to rouse him?"

"Perhaps, but to what end? Why would someone want to harm him, or rouse him? What would be the point?"  
"Perhaps they wanted him to talk?"  
"And say what?"  
"I don't know."

There was silence.

"Just catch that sick bastard!" said Paul.

"Security are on to him. They'll want to talk to you shortly."

"Right," said Paul.

The doctors left, and as they did so, two men in grey uniforms took up position outside the door. Paul felt a little more at ease. He sat down next to Alon, and stroked his hair. For a moment, he thought that Alon looked right at him. It was a look of fear.


	23. The Investigation

Chapter 23

It was some time before two more security guards and two policemen arrived to speak to Paul. Dr. Guillaume appeared, too, but sat in a chair in the corner and said nothing while they made their introductions.

"I am Sergeant Benaguida," said the woman, "And this is Agent DiMatteo."  
Agent DiMatteo nodded acknowledgement, and then went over to Alon. He took a small box from his pocket, and held the device over Alon's face. The box glowed and a beam of light shone from it.

"What's he doing?" asked Paul.

"Collecting evidence; fingerprints and DNA," said Benguida.

Paul nodded. DiMatteo moved around the room, shining the light on every surface.

The two security guards did not introduce themselves. They stood back and allowed the police to speak.

"Can you tell us exactly what happened?" asked Benaguida, smiling warmly.

Paul recounted the events as accurately as he could. Benaguida made notes the entire time with a stylus on some electronic paper.

"Did you recognise the individual?" she said.

"No. I've never seen him before," said Paul. He then offered quite a detailed description of the man.

Benaguida asked some more questions, and then read back over her notes to check that all her details were correct. Paul confirmed this.

"So what do you think he was doing here?" asked Paul, nervously.

Benaguida sighed. "You really can't think of any reason why someone wuld want to attack Alon?"

"No. What could anyone want from a nine-year-old boy?"

"I think we're dealing with some kind of sicko. Pretending to be a doctor. Don't worry- we'll catch him. I don't think you have anything else to worry about. He knows we're on to him, and I doubt he'll be back. But we'll keep security posted at the door?" Benaguida looked at the more senior security guard, who nodded in response.

"Okay, we'll get on it immediately." The two police officers left, followed by the security guards, leaving Paul and Dr. Guillaume alone with Alon.

* * *

Paul got up and went over to the boy. "It's going to be all right, Alon," he said soothingly.

There was a rustling from the corner. Dr. Guillaume came over to join them.

"This is a terrible thing to have happened," he said.

Paul shook his head.

"I cannot think why somebody would want to harm a small child."  
"I think they thought he might be able to tell them something."  
"Such as? He cannot speak."

"I know that. Perhaps they did not."  
Dr. Guillaume cocked his head on one side.

"You know, doctor, when I came in, and the man had gone, I am sure Alon looked at me."  
"His eyes do not focus on anything-"  
"No, I mean he really looked at me. Right in the eyes."  
Dr. Guillaume took out his penlight and did some checks on Alon's eyes. "I can find no change. But I shall make a note of it." He turned to a new page in Alon's chart and scribbled something down.

"He looked scared, Dr. Guillaume," said Paul, a little emotionally.

Dr. Guillaume looked at him sympathetically. He was not sure he believed him, but he certainly felt sorry for the man.

"You're quite safe now. I suggest you get some rest."

Paul half-smiled, and Dr. Guillaume went to see another patient.

* * *

Paul sat with his eyes wide in the chair, jumping at every movement from outside. He actually felt a little more vulnerable at this hospital now, as the room was enclosed with only a window in the door. However, through this he could see the security guards, and felt a little better.

By evening his bed arrived. It was much more substantial than the one at the last hospital. He sat on it to check for comfort, and it was indeed comfortable. But Paul could not sleep in it. He curled up in the chair next to the head of Alon's bed, and slept there as best he could, with the blankets drawn up around him.

Paul forgot that his friend Pierre was due to visit him that night, and awoke with a start as he heard the security guards talking outside. He went to the door.

"It's okay, guys. I know this man. He's come to see me."

The security guards stepped aside and Pierre came in.  
"That's a little extreme, isn't it?"  
"Someone got in here today and attacked Alon."  
"Attacked him!"

"Yes." Paul explained what had happened.

"Oh, my God!" said Pierre. "That's awful. Is he okay? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."  
"You look like hell." Pierre was holding back. He could see from Paul's hanging clothes that he had lost at least 5 kg in weight.  
"Gee, thanks," said Paul.

Pierre smiled. "Look. Get some sleep. I'll email this stuff to you, and I'll come and see you both in a few days. There's a whole queue of people who want to come along."  
"Pierre, could you, get them to hold off for a while? I mean, I'd love to see everyone but this is really- the stress of it all-"  
"Sure, buddy. No problem. We'll take it easy."  
"I'd like it if you'd come back."  
"Thanks, Paul."  
"And I'd like to see Sandrine."  
"We'll be in touch. Get some rest. And eat something, eh?" said Pierre, and slapped Paul on the shoulder. Paul bid him farewell and curled up on his chair again.

* * *

Next day, the police arrived again.

"Progress?" asked Paul, expectantly.  
"I am afraid not," said Benaguida. "We have found several images of the man on the hospital security cameras, and he made a videophone call while he was here. But it is like he never existed. His fingerprints are not on record, nor is his DNA. The computer can find no ID match."  
"You can't find him?"  
"As yet, no."  
"So what do we do?"

"Are you sure you can't think of any reason why anyone would want to harm him."

Paul was quiet for a few moments, and the Sergeant stared at him. It made him uncomfortable. "Well, there is…but I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"What?" said Benaguida, now very interested. "It could be important, Mr Durant."

"He is hurricane boy."

"What?" asked Benguida.

"The hurricane- hurricane Alan. You know-"  
"Of course, we know!" said Benaguida, a little harshly. But she repeated her comment kindly, realising it sounded angry.

"You know it was predicted by a little boy?"  
"I had heard about it. I though it was some kind of hype."  
"Well it wasn't."  
"How could a child predict a hurricane like that?"  
"This is no ordinary child. He is a singular genius." Paul spoke like a proud father.

Benaguida smiled sympathetically; she could not see how the lifeless boy in the bed next to them could be a genius. But she accepted and noted what Paul told her. "Why did you not mention this before?"  
"We didn't want the press all over the place. Plus America hushed up the story. They didn't want the world to know that they were warned about the hurricane and did nothing about it."  
"Really?"

"They could have saved a lot more people if they had acted sooner. Canada started evacuations twelve hours before, and saved almost all their people. Thousands were lost in the states. Unfortunately, among their number were Alon's own parents, and his entire community."

Benaguida almost cried. This story was terrible, even for a hardened police officer of many years service. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Anyway," said Paul. "Like I say, I don't know what this has to do with anything."

"We have to investigate all angles, Mr. Durant. I will go and see if this new information turns up anything useful. And I'll keep you informed."  
"Thank you."

Benaguida and DiMatteo turned to leave. DiMatteo went first, and Benaguida paused at the door, as Paul got her attention again.

"Sergeant," he said. "We'd still like to keep this away from the press."

Benaguida nodded. "I'll do my best," she said.


	24. Paranoid

Chapter 24

Paul slept badly. He woke often, but was reassured by the continued presence of the security guards.

* * *

The next day the team of therapists arrived. Paul was pleased with them; they all spoke to him about what was going on, and also they spoke to Alon about what they were doing, in the most caring and concerned way. The physiotherapist did some checks on Alon's muscle tone and arrange a programme of therapy and massage to help him. He planned to use electrical stimulation to exercise his muscles while he was unable to operate them. The speech therapist suggested that Paul continue with his reading, and also to play music for him. A number of things were suggested by the rehabilitation technologist, but she needed to wait a while until his condition was more predictable, to be able to help him effectively. The occupational therapist fitted some sensory gloves to help stimulate the nerves in his hands, and said he would monitor Alon closely over the coming weeks. All the team wound up the meeting, and left, except for the psychologist.

Paul was uncomfortable. Not only had he the stress of last night's events to contend with, but now the psychologist. He was worried that she was more interested in him than in Alon.

"There is not too much I can say about Alon, Mr. Durant,"  
"Right," said Paul sensing a 'but.'

"There are many psychological problems that may be associated with an injury of this type. His personality may be dramatically affected."  
"Or it might not."  
"Indeed. Of more concern are his feelings about the loss of his parents. He will obviously be very sad about this, and we do not know how much he already understands or remembers about what has happened. He may experience survivor guilt, or have suicidal feelings."

Paul's eyes closed gently. He had considered many of these eventualities, but now it was really hitting home. But then he realised that this might be good news.

"You see him recovering enough for all that?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think that he will recover sufficiently to feel sad, or guilty, or whatever. Right now, he doesn't respond to anything. Nothing at all."  
"I think we cannot rule that out. I think he will recover, but I am sorry that I cannot say how much. But there are these things to consider no matter what his degree of recovery, as well as during the recovery itself."  
Paul nodded. And then came the question he dreaded.

"How do you feel about it?"  
Paul pursed his lips. "How do I feel about it? I want him to get better. I'll do whatever I can to help him. I love him. That's how I feel about it." He spoke matter-of-factly, and did his best not to get angry.

The psychologist's face remained warm. "That is good to know, Mr. Durant."

Paul nodded, and relaxed. "You aren't going to tell me how to feel?"  
"No. I'm not," she said, and said goodbye.

"Will you be back?"  
"Tomorrow," she said, and left.

* * *

Pierre returned in the afternoon, with Sandrine. Paul embraced them both.

"Good to have you back, buddy!" said Pierre.

Sandrine smiled at Paul, sadly. He smiled back, and they kissed each other on the cheeks.

"How's the boy?" asked Pierre.

Paul at first wanted to snap that his name was Alon, but this was Pierre's way; he knew that Pierre knew his name.  
"Better. Look," he said, and stepped over to Alon. "Hello, Alon," said Paul, stroking his hair, gently. Alon's cold, staring eyes looked up, in no particular direction. "These are my friends; Pierre and Sandrine."  
Sandrine and Pierre looked at each other.

Paul kissed Alon's forehead, and joined his friends in the chairs in the corner.

"So how's work?" he asked.

"Well, the CMC is still reeling. The work that Alon did- we've had to totally rethink our modelling systems."  
Paul tensed. "They don't know his name, do they?"

"No. I told no one."  
"Thankyou." Paul was relieved.

Sandrine smiled.

"Well, it's all buzzing at the CMC!" said Pierre. He was normally an animated person, but was trying to tone it down a little, so as not to seem as if he was compensating for the low mood in the room. "Here, I brought this for you." Pierre handed Paul a large dossier.

Paul looked at it, slightly interested, and then placed it on the table. "Thanks, I'll look at it later."

"We all miss you," said Pierre.

"Thanks," said Paul.

There was silence for some moments.

"I er, I've been keeping up your house. I meant to bring your mail but I forgot it. I paid a few bills; I hope you don't mind. But I figured you had enough to worry about.

Paul nodded, and thanked him again.

"I watered the plants. And there was something in the fridge that really did not smell good, so I threw it."  
"Okay," said Paul, smiling a little.

"Anything else we can do?" asked Pierre. "I mean, everyone wants to help. We can decorate your spare room for him, if you like."  
"Thanks, Pierre. It's a great idea, but I think it's a little early. There's a lot to think about. And I don't want too many people knowing, especially after-"  
"Right," said Sandrine. They did not want to mention the attack.

"People don't know, not outside our office. Other people just know you have adopted, well, a sick little boy. They don't know who he is."

Paul sighed. "Good."

"Do you know when you'll get to bring him home?" asked Pierre.

"No. Not yet. Soon, I hope."  
"Will that be possible?" asked Sandrine, immediately regretting her choice of words.

"I'll get nurses and help and stuff, I guess, " said Paul. He looked at the ground.  
Pierre smiled at Sandrine. Paul clearly was very tired.

"Well, you let us know, buddy, and we'll sort things out." Pierre tried to sound upbeat. "We have to be getting back. We'll see you later."  
They said their farewells and left Paul with Alon.

* * *

All day, Paul grew increasingly more paranoid. He heard from Sergeant Benaguida that they were no closer to finding the man who had got into Alon's room. This made him feel less safe, and he began to view the movements of the security guards with suspicion, as they were the only thing between his son and danger. He moved himself closer to Alon, and began to follow the advice of the speech therapist. While watching the goings on outside through the window, he began to talk and sing to Alon. As doctors came in and out he would demand their identification, which they freely gave.

* * *

Paul slept little in the night, and by the morning he was feeling his symptoms of weakness and fatigue return. When Dr. Guillaume came to check on Alon in the morning, Paul asked to speak to him.

"Of course."  
"Actually, you know what, it isn't important," said Paul, changing his mind.

Dr. Guillaume eyed him with suspicion. "Are you quite alright, Paul?" he said.

Paul looked at him."  
"You have something which worries you?"

"No. No, it's fine."  
Paul was sitting in a chair, and Dr. Guillaume backed off from him. "Stand up," he said.

Paul got up very slowly and felt his head swim. Dr. Guillaume noticed, and took hold of his wrist. He raised his eyebrows at his rapid pulse.

"You are losing weight, Paul. Are you eating?"

"I hate hospital food."  
"Are you sleeping?"  
"I guess not."

"You need to stay strong."  
"For Alon, I know."  
"And also for yourself."  
"I know."

Dr. Guillaume left, and a few minutes later, a tray of food arrived, and Paul forced himself to eat it. Then he turned down the lights, and tried to catch up on some sleep.


	25. Homecoming

Chapter 25

Paul was looking out of the window when Dr. Guillaume came into the room the next morning.

"Good news!" said the doctor happily.

Paul turned and smiled, after so long of hearing nothing but bad news, this was most welcome.

"Yes?" said Paul.

"You can go home. We have a care package ready. He's off oxygen and all his meds can be given either at home or by the nurses. He's all yours."

Paul was elated. "When?"

"Either later today or first thing tomorrow; it's really up to you."  
Paul wanted to leave right now, but remained pragmatic. "Tomorrow would be better; we have a lot to prepare."

"Okay!" said the doctor, who kicked his heels as he left.

Paul sat down, and put his hand on Alon's forehead. "Did you hear that, Alon? We're going home!"

He went out to the videophone to call Pierre and Sandrine.

* * *

Paul left the hospital that afternoon to meet Pierre and Sandrine and prepare his home. Together they dismantled Paul's office, which was covered in dust, and moved it upstairs to the small spare room. The office downstairs would now be Alon's room. A special bed had been ordered, and it was delivered. Sandrine thought it look a little too much like the hospital and brought in some soft toys and pictures for the walls.

"He doesn't like that stuff, he's a genius, you know," said Paul.

"I know, but he's still a kid, Paul. And don't you think it looks a bit more comfortable?" said Sandrine.

"I'm sorry. Of course it does," said Paul, smiling.

Sandrine hugged Paul. "It's nice to see you smile. We'll finish up here. You get back."

Paul headed back to the hospital.

"Do you think they're going to be okay?" said Sandrine.

"I do. They have us helping them out. I think fatherhood suits him, don't you?" said Pierre.

Sandrine smiled and started making the bed.

* * *

Paul was soon back at Alon's bedside. Now the hospital did not seem like the prison it had been- soon they would be leaving. His steps had a little more spring in them. He went over to Alon.

"Hey, I'm back. Did you miss me?"

Alon smiled. Paul thought he was imagining things, but as he refocused he saw that Alon was making eye contact with him. Paul leaned over and hugged him.

"You're back! I knew you'd come back!" Alon smiled fixedly.

The doctor examined Alon and came back to Paul. Paul was very happy and could not understand the doctor's deadpan expression.

"Something wrong?" asked Paul.

"No. But I don't think this is the big miracle you were expecting. He is certainly a little more animated, but I don't think he knows what he is smiling at, or even looking at. I think you can be hopeful, Paul, but we're a long way from the finish line here, and we may never get there." The doctor was being straight, and Paul respected that. He nodded calmly.

"Can I still take him home tomorrow?"

The doctor smiled. "Absolutely. I think that will help a lot, both of you."

The doctor left. Paul got a meal from the cafeteria and later settled down to sleep for his last night in the hospital.

* * *

The ambulance drew up outside Paul's house and the crew brought Alon inside. Pierre, Sandrine, and some other colleagues were inside, hiding in the dining room. The crew put Alon in his new bed, and left. Paul had a big box of meds, leaflets and physio guides, and set the down on top of a chest of drawers. The two nurses would be around at lunch time to introduce themselves and talk about the car package.

The hiding friends ran into the room with balloons and streamers.

"Surprise!" they yelled.

Paul nearly had a heart attack, but he was happy to be welcomed home. He was very tired; not the sort of tiredness you get from a bad night's sleep, but the sort of tired you get from weeks of stress, panic, and not taking care of yourself. He needed the lift.

Cake was eaten, gifts were given, and Paul and Alon were left alone.

* * *

The nurses came and arranged the timetable, and explained what they would be doing with Alon. Paul had decided not to return to work yet, so they arranged a simple day and night rota. Paul had not met either of them before but they seem dedicated and professional, and he was pleased. He would have to return to the hospital for a review after six weeks, but for now, Paul and Alon were alone for the first time. Paul found it quite strange.

Paul went over to Alon's bed, and sat down next to it. He had things to do, but was so used to passing his time like this he could not really think through what to do first or how to do it in his head. So for about 5 minutes he just sat there. Then he started thinking about moving a TV and maybe a videophone into the room. Then he fell asleep.

When he woke, Alon was looking at him, with his head turned to one side. Paul looked amazed. Alon had been previously unable to do this.

Alon smiled at Paul. "Oui, Je parle Francais," he said.


	26. A Voice

Chapter 26

Paul's jaw dropped. He turned white. He breathed heavily for some minutes, and then addressed Alon again.

"You can talk!" said Paul.

"A little bit. I'd been rehearsing that one in my head for a little while." Alon spoke slowly, almost drunkenly. He sounded very different from before his accident, and Paul had to try hard to interpret the word 'rehearsing.'

"How long have you been able to talk?" asked Paul. He was almost angry.

"Not sure. A few days." His speech was very slurred now.

"Can you walk?"  
"No. I can move my head a little."  
He stopped talking for a moment; it took a lot of effort. He composed himself. "Can I ask a question?"

"Of course," said Paul. "Go ahead."  
"What happened?"

"What do you remember?"

"I remember camp, and a ride in a helicopter. Everything after the helicopter."

Paul cried a little. He had to ask Alon to repeat himself a few times, because of his speech.

Alon sat expressionless as Paul explained everything to him. His parents, his accident, his adoption, that he was now in Canada, and that he was now in Paul's home. Paul was surprised that he did not show emotion on hearing that his parents were dead.  
"I already knew about that," said Alon solemnly, though it was hard to discern the emotion from his voice. He sounded like a drunken old man. "But I wasn't sure about a lot of things. Thank you. I have one more question."

"What?"

"Am I going to be all right?"

"Yes, Alon, of course you are."

Paul hugged the little boy, and they cried together.

* * *

Alon slept most of the rest of the day, and all night. Paul got one with sorting out his affairs. He was so relieved to talk to Alon, but wasn't sure why he had not spoken before. Alon was exhausted from talking, so Paul did not want to press him. But tomorrow, he would.

When the morning nurse came, Alon again said nothing. Paul was puzzled, but he did not tell the nurse. He could not explain why; but he was sure Alon must have a reason. So after the nurse left, Paul spoke to him.

"Alon, if you have been able to speak for this long, why didn't you?"

"You know who my father is?" asked Alon, and sighed at his mistake. "Was."

"Yes."  
"A man came to the hospital. He said he knew I knew my fathers work, that it had all been lost and they wanted the research. He called somebody on a cell phone and said I couldn't talk. Then you came, and he ran away." It took Alon a long time to get all the words out, but it seemed his speech was improving with practise. "I thought if they knew I could talk, they'd hurt me or something."

Paul meshed his fingers. This was not the kind of thing he had been expecting, although he wasn't sure what he had been expecting. He was quiet for a moment.

"So why now?" he asked. Paul found it easier than most people did that Alon was no ordinary child- for the most part he could speak to him as if he were an adult.

"You'll protect me, won't you?" asked Alon, in the most childlike way Paul had ever seen him speak.

"Of course I will, Alon." Paul hugged him tearfully.

"I need to sleep. I'm very tired," said Alon. Paul let him go and kissed him on the head. Alon slept most of the time.

* * *

Paul spent the next few hours on the internet, looking at articles about Michael Markowitz and his work. It seemed that this work was very valuable, and the Markowitz family had reportedly been under surveillance for their own safety. Their address had been kept secret until the hurricane. The internet also reported that their only son had also died in the hurricane, though one more 'colourful' website said that the boy had survived and was living in Vancouver.

"Five thousand kilometres, and still too close for comfort," said Paul to himself. The same website also reported that there was a price on the child's head, because he was reportedly very clever, and may have helped his father with the designs.

Paul now had to consider what to do. He could not tell the wrong kind of people who and where Alon was. He did not want to start doing drastic things like changing his name or moving to Siberia, but he did need to protect Alon from a very real threat. In addition, by not reporting the change in Alon's condition, he would not be getting the proper care that he needed, for although he was now lucid, he was still far from well. There were also question about how long this situation could go on. Alon would need to be in school if he was _compos mentis_, or his education might suffer. Eventually Paul would have to return to work, and he would have to be left in the care of someone else. Paul rubbed his temples.

* * *

That evening, during one of Alon's infrequent 'awake' moments, he spoke to Paul.

"Where is my siddur?" asked Alon.

Paul took a while to understand what he was saying. He knew what a siddur was but it was an unfamiliar word and Alon was not speaking very well.

"Oh, right here," said Paul, and dug around in the piles of things he had brought back from the hospital until he found the right one. He held it out for Alon to take. But Alon could not move his arms. Alon looked upset.

"I have an idea!" said Paul. He fetched a music stand from upstairs, and fastened the book to it with a piece of shock cord.

"You'll have to tell me which page!" giggled Paul. Alon smiled. He gave Paul a vexed look.

"What's the matter?"

"I can't read it; my eyes aren't focussing properly."

Paul moved the stand closer.

"Thank you," said Alon. He looked at Paul.

"Do you want to be alone?" asked Paul.  
"You don't mind?"  
"Of course not," said Paul, cheerily. He left Alon and went to do some housework.

* * *

The night nurse came and Paul rubbed his chin. He decided not to tell him. He did not know this person after all. He needed advice, and he did not know from whom tog et it. Of course there were people that he trusted, Sandrine and Pierre were good friends he had known for a long time, there was Gavin, and of course Matt Bissett had become a trusted friend. But he could think of nobody whom he could trust not to go and cash in on the situation and would be able to advise him. This was international terrorism type stuff, and Paul was in over his head. And then it hit him whom to call. 


	27. More Help

Chapter 27

He went through the scraps of paper in his wallet and found the right number. He dialled.

"Hello?" the voice answered.

"Dovid? It's Paul Durant, we met in Los Angeles."  
"Hello, of course, how is-"  
"I can't talk on the phone. I know this is a big thing to ask. Can you come to Montreal?"

Dovid was quiet for a moment, but sensed the urgency in Paul's voice. "Yes, of course. I will be there as soon as I can."

* * *

Sandrine agreed to watch Alon while Paul collected Dovid from the airport the next day. He greeted him when he got into the car but said no more. He drove right to the end of the long stay car park, locked the doors and activated the sun-glass function, turning the windows black.

Paul turned to Dovid. "I have a problem. I don't know if you can help me, but I could not think of anyone else I could ask. I am sorry to drag you all the way up here, but I know you know people, and people know you, and-"  
"Calm down, Paul!" said Dovid. Paul was babbling.

"Right." Paul explained their situation.

Dovid listened dutifully, without interrupting, as Paul recounted the unbelievable events. He pressed his fingertips together in front of his nose and concentrated. When Paul finished talking, he rubbed his beard. Paul wondered if anything could surprise the young rabbi.

"This is most complex," he said. "I'll talk with a few trusted people. I'll visit personally and not phone them. We'll get some security for you. Don't worry."  
"You can do that?"

"Yes, of course. I thought that was why you called me."  
"I guess it was. I'm glad I did."  
"May I see Alon?"

"Of course, you must stay with us. I'll drive us there now."

Dovid nodded and Paul drove him home.

* * *

Alon was asleep or at least pretending, when they got there. Paul did not have to try to get Sandrine to leave; she hurried off to another appointment. Dovid and Paul went in to Alon's room. Paul gambled.

"It's all right, Alon, it's just me and a good friend of mine."

Alon opened his eyes. "Rabbi?" he said. He had of course, not been conscious when he had met Dovid, but he recognised the 'uniform.'

"Sholom, Alon," said Dovid, smiling, and sat down in the chair next to the bed. Alon nodded acknowledgement.

"He can't talk for long; he gets very tired," said Paul.

Dovid smiled and nodded. Paul sensed he wanted to talk to him alone.

"Would you like some coffee?" asked Paul.

"A glass of water would be great," said Dovid, and Paul went out to the kitchen.

"How are you, Alon?" asked Dovid.

"Okay," said Alon. "Well, I can move my head a little."

The rabbi smiled. "Good, that is very good. You will be running around again soon, God willing."

Alon nodded. "I mourned for them," he said tearfully.

"I know," said the rabbi, and took the boy's hand.

"I can feel it," said Alon. "But I can't hold your hand."

"Don't worry about that, child."

* * *

Paul was about half an hour getting Dovid a glass of water; he figured that was enough time. He went back in to Alon's room to find him asleep, his head cradled in Dovid's arms. Paul put the glass down next to Dovid.

"A troubled young man," said Dovid, "But stronger than anyone I've seen. And I've seen a lot of troubled young men, Paul. I don't think you have anything to worry about where Alon is concerned. I am sure that his body will follow his mind."

"Thank you," said Paul.

"Shall we speak in the other room?" said Dovid.

Paul nodded and they went through into the lounge and sat down.

"I know a very trustworthy doctor in the city. He's not a paediatrician but I am sure he can help us. These days technology is forcing medical disciplines together, so he tells me. I will go out tomorrow and speak to him, and with your permission, bring him back here. I think we should keep up the pretence with the nurses until we have had his input."  
"You are sure we can trust him?" asked Paul.

"I'd trust him with this if Alon were my own son," said Dovid, and patted Paul's shoulder.

The rabbi went out to get some food and prayed for a while when he returned. He had bought things from the kosher deli, and served some to Paul.  
"This is delicious!" he said. "Really good! I don't think I am going to have any problem with the kosher food thing!"

"You don't already?"

"No, Alon doesn't eat yet. He gets his nutrition from the line in his hand when the nurses come."

"If he can speak, he might be able to eat,"  
"True, I didn't think of that."  
"We'll see what the doctor says."

They whiled away the evening chatting, and retired.

* * *

The rabbi left before Paul got up the next morning; he slept in until 10 am. He needed the rest. Dovid had left him a note explaining he had let the morning nurse in and gone out to speak with his friend when she had left. He returned at twelve, with a grey-haired man in his late fifties.

"This is my friend Claude Theroux. He works at the university hospital, but we met in LA about 5 years ago."

"Pleasure to meet you," said Claude, and shook hands with Paul. "Dovid has told me of your situation, and I'd like to meet your son and examine him."  
Paul smiled. He didn't know if Dovid had said Alon actually was his son, or had told him the whole truth of the matter and he was trying to be gracious.

"Of course," he said. "I'll try to wake him up."

They went through into Alon's room. Paul shook Alon gently to wake him.

"Does he sleep a lot?" asked Claude.

"About 20 hours a day," said Paul.

"Hmm," said Claude, coming over to Alon's bed as his eyes opened.

"What?" asked Paul, concerned.

"Nothing, I'm sorry."

"He does that a lot!" snickered Dovid.

Alon groaned.

"Hello, Alon, I'm Dr. Theroux, and I've come to take a look at you," said Claude. "You don't mind, do you?"

"No, please," said Alon.

Claude seemed confused as to what he meant; he looked at Paul, who nodded.

Claude examined Alon, and looked at his records from the hospital. After he had done this he motioned Paul over, to speak to him privately, but Paul explained that he wanted Alon to be involved in his own care and that he was quite capable of understanding it. Claude remembered what Dovid had told him about Alon, and nodded deference.

"He's – I'm sorry, Alon, you've - got some muscle wasting, certainly, and the severity of the damage to your brain might never be known. Even with today's technology we can only tell so much from imaging. You have sensation but not movement, so we can work on that. I think your recovery is pretty remarkable, but don't expect too much too soon. We'll work on eating when he's a little stronger. From what Dovid tells me we need to keep a bit of a lid on this situation. So, I'll be your personal physio. But I need to come around pretty early, before work and after."

"That would be great," said Paul. "What about the nurses?"

"I don't know about that. You can't really just send them away. I guess you could tell them you have other help. You can tell them he has improved slightly but he doesn't speak. I don't know on that one, I'm afraid," said Claude.

"We'll work something out," said Paul.

"I have to go, I'm afraid," said Claude. "I'll see you later on tonight."


	28. Nightmare

Chapter 28

Alon began to improve over the next few weeks, with Claude's help. Eventually, he was eating, and could sit up on his won, though he still couldn't walk. He was working on his arms, in the hope of being able to use a wheelchair while his legs got stronger. Alon loved Paul's home, but longed to be able to move around it by himself. Paul's paranoia remained, although the arrival of the security allayed his fears somewhat; there was always someone watching the house.

* * *

It was a Thursday evening when one of the nurses came. Dovid was still in Montreal, but had other business and had been staying in another part of town for about a week. He was due back the next day before leaving for LA.

"How's he doing?" He asked Paul.

"Okay, just fine," said Paul. He was a little flustered.  
"Still eating?"

"Yes, pureed stuff."  
"But he still doesn't talk?"

"No. Not a word."  
"Oh, well," said the nurse cheerfully. "Early days, yet."

He went to the front door. Paul did not see him out. He heard the front door close.

"Are you okay, Alon?"  
"I'm fine," said Alon, smiling.

Paul heard the front door close again. He went into the hall, and found the door banging on its hinges- it had been left open and was flapping in the breeze. It had made Paul nervous but now he was relieved; he had to stop being paranoid. The security would have come if there was a problem.

* * *

That night, Paul bade Alon goodnight and went to bed himself. He was starting to adjust to the situation and feel much more like his old self again. Pierre had told him he was getting some of his colour back. With Alon doing so well, and so much support being given to him by Dovid, Claude, Pierre and Sandrine, he was looking forward to going back to work.

Paul did not hear the front door open, but he heard a commotion coming from downstairs. He crept down the stairs, nervously. He covered his mouth with his hand as he reached the hall. The body of one of the security men was slumped against the hall wall. He was almost completely white, and he was sitting in a pool of blood. For a moment, Paul had to stop himself screaming, crying out, and vomiting all at once, for he felt like he might do all three. He took a second to compose himself. The noise was coming from Alon's room. As he approached, it stopped. Paul gulped. As he approached the door, the noise stopped. Paul paused; he was not really sure what he was going to do. The videophone would make too much noise if he tried to use it. But whoever was in the room obviously meant harm, as he had already killed a security guard.

Paul took a deep breath, and grabbed his baseball bat from the wall. It was a memento, never meant as a weapon, but it was the only thing he could easily lay his hands on. He decided to open the door quickly, to have the element of surprise. All he knew about this sort of situation he had seen on TV. He hoped with all his might that the good guys were going to win this time.

Paul kicked open the door. Alon was on the floor, seemingly unconscious. There was a figure over him, which turned around when Paul opened the door. In the half-light, Paul recognised him. It was the night nurse.  
"You!" said Paul. He was taken aback. He held his bat up high.  
The nurse froze.

"What do you want with him!" screamed Paul, and rained three heavy blows on to the man's head. He fell.

"Alon! Are you all right?" Paul shook Alon, furiously.

"He injected me with something," said Alon, sluggishly.

"Oh, God!" said Paul, and picked him up. He carried him into the next room and went for the videophone. Alon fought to stay awake.

"Police!" called Paul into the videophone. It only took a few seconds to be connected. "There's a man in my house! He just drugged my son!"

"Get out of the house; we'll be right there!"

The police were despatched immediately, and within a minute Paul could hear the noise of the helijet outside. He hugged Alon tightly. He wrapped him in a blanket, and carried him to the front door.

As he opened the door, Paul heard a loud noise, and then felt a burning sensation in his back. It was not painful; just uncomfortable. Suddenly, Paul could no longer stand. He was not sure why. He sank to the ground, gently placing Alon across his knees.

"No! No!" said Alon, sleepily. The adrenaline was beginning to counteract the drug.

Another shot hit the hall wall. Alon dragged himself around to the outside. He tried to pull Paul out towards him, but his arms were too weak. He cried with frustration. He fell backwards as he let go of Paul. A policeman jumped over them both, followed by two more, and a fourth stopped at Alon and Paul. There was the sound of pulse weapons fire inside the house.

"You okay, kid?" asked the officer.

"Him- my Dad!" said Alon, and wept. "Please help him!"

The officer signalled to another. They brought a life support bed over, and placed Paul on it. They did their best but had to wait for a medic to finish it.  
"I think we'd better get him away; he looks pretty bad," said the first officer.

"Medair will be here in 2 minutes," said the other.

"I don't think he has that long," said the first.

The two women nodded to each other, and pulled the bed away.

"Come on, kid," said the first. "We've got to get your dad to hospital!"

"I can't walk," sobbed Alon.

Another officer appeared from somewhere and scooped Alon up. Before he knew it, they were airborne.


	29. Loss

Chapter 29

When they arrived at the hospital, Paul was rushed away. Alon felt so alone. He was taken to a different area, and put on a chelating machine, to get the drugs out of his blood. The doctors in the emergency department were very busy, and gave him a video game and a cuddly toy, and left him alone.

* * *

Paul drifted in and out of consciousness. He knew he must be in a hospital, from the flashes of awareness he had. He was not in pain, but felt dreadfully weak. When he finally woke, he was aware that some time must have passed.

"Monsieur Durant, pouvez-vous m'entendre?"

Paul stared.  
"Mr Durant, can you hear me?"

"Oui. Yes. I can hear you." Paul found it hard to get the words out. "What's wrong?"

The doctor frowned, and now Paul could see another man standing next to him. They looked at each other. Paul knew something was wrong.

"You can tell me. What's wrong with Alon?"

"Alon?"  
"My son. He came in with me."  
"The boy is fine."

"He's fine, Paul."  
Paul realised that the other man was Dovid. Dovid nodded to the doctor, who bowed a little and left.

"He's having some treatment. I'll have him come up here as soon as he is finished," said Dovid.

"But he's okay?"

"Just rest. I'll take care of everything."  
Paul fell asleep.

Dovid left him and went to speak to the doctor outside.

"Are you sure I should not tell him?" said Dovid.

"I think it best not to," said the doctor. "Patients often do not respond well to being told things like that."  
"But he is not an ordinary man; he has great courage. It would give him time to prepare."

"I shall leave the decision to you," said the doctor, sadly.

"How long?" asked Dovid.

"Not more than a couple of hours," said the doctor.

Dovid shed a tear, and wiped his face with his handkerchief, before going to find Alon.

* * *

Alon was hugging a large teddy bear, staring fixedly at the opposite wall. When Dovid arrived, he threw his arms around him.  
"Can I see Aba?" asked Alon.

Dovid smiled. "Of course. Let's go."

He helped Alon into a wheelchair and they headed for Paul.

Alon was surprised when he saw Paul through the window of the room. He had expected him to be full of tubes and pins, but he was not. He had a blood oxygen infusor attached to his arm, a line in his hand, and that was it. But Alon had never seen anyone look so ill.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Alon.

The rabbi took a deep breath. He had resolved to tell Alon the truth. "He's going to die, Alon."  
Alon did not cry, but his lip trembled. He nodded acknowledgement. In a way, he had been prepared for this.

The rabbi and the boy looked at each other. With only their eyes, they comforted each other.

"I want to be there," said Alon. He could not bear to lose his parents, and now Paul, without ever getting a chance to say goodbye. The rabbi was looking at him rather strangely. "He doesn't know, does he?"

"We thought it best not to tell him."  
"I'll tell him," said Alon, and straightened up in his wheelchair.

Dovid wheeled Alon into the room.

"Dad?" called Alon.

Paul opened his eyes, smiling. Alon was calling him 'Dad.'

"Alon! It's good to see you. Are you okay?" Paul spoke weakly and breathily.

"I'm fine. How do you feel?"  
"I'm good. Just a little tired."

Alon took his hand. He wasn't sure what to say. "It'll all be okay. I'm tired too."

Paul patted the bed next to him. Alon twisted his chair and lay down next to Paul.

"Why don't you go to sleep, Dad?" said Alon.

Alon watched Paul's face as he slept. "I love you, Dad. Thank you," he said, and kissed him on the forehead. For two hours he slept. Dovid stood watching the numbers on the monitor drop. By three o'clock in the morning, Paul was gone. Alon carried on hugging him for another hour before he would let him go.

* * *

"Thank you for coming," said Dovid, the next morning. Pierre and Sandrine held hands and smiled thinly at Dovid.

"No problem, thanks for calling us," said Pierre. Sandrine turned and sobbed into his shoulder.

"You don't need my help with the arrangements?" asked Dovid. He did very much want to help, but did not want to tread on any toes as far as the arrangements for Paul's funeral were concerned.

"Sure." Pierre wiped a tear from his eye, and spoke comfortingly in French to Sandrine. "Tout ira tres bien."

Dovid looked at the floor.

"How's Alon?" asked Pierre.

"Bearing up. Upset, of course."

Pierre seemed pleased. Dovid was relieved; it would have been easy for Paul's closest friends to blame Alon for what had happened to Paul, and understandable. These were good people.

"Can we see him? Both of them?" asked Sandrine, tearfully.

Dovid nodded. They were allowed to see Paul's body. His face still bore the expression of warmth and love from his last moments with his adopted son. Pierre kissed him on both cheeks.

* * *

As they walked to see Alon, who was still in Paul's room, Pierre spoke to Dovid.

"Are you staying at Paul's place?"

"No. It's er, no. It's a crime scene."

"Right."  
"There was another man killed there."

"Good God," said Pierre, but without as much shock as might have been expected.

"I'm staying with someone on the other side of town. I'll take Alon there."  
"You'll be okay?" asked Pierre.

"Yes. Here is a number I can be reached at. It's voice only. Tell no-one."

Pierre nodded as he took the piece of paper Dovid handed to him.

Dovid and Pierre want into the room. Sandrine went out for some air and said she would see Alon soon.

Alon was facing one of the walls, rocking back and forth in his chair. He did not greet them. Dovid beckoned to Pierre to wait. When Alon had finished praying, he turned his chair towards them.

"Hello," he said.

"Looking good, Buddy!" said Pierre, trying to sound cheerful.

Alon reminded him to whom he was talking. "I wish we were meeting under happier circumstances. Are you making his funeral arrangements?"  
"Yes, we are. Would you like to be involved?"

"I would. His body will be released after the post-mortem, which is pretty open and shut, I think. I'd like to be there, of course, but I think you'd know what he wanted better than I. I don't really know much about his traditions."  
"He didn't really keep many," said Pierre.

Both of them smiled.

"I'll go and get a cup of coffee," said Dovid. He left them alone.

Both Alon and Pierre sat talking about Paul. It made Alon happy.


	30. Goodbye

Chapter 30

Paul's funeral was planned for four days later. Alon seemed to cope well with the situation, though he needed to be encouraged to eat, and rarely slept. He was very much in mourning.

Claude had come to the house where he was staying, and measured him for braces. These would use electromagnetic fields to support his legs, allowing him to get used to walking. Alon was happy; he wanted to be able to walk with Paul's coffin. Claude promised to return with the braces before the funeral, and he did as promised.

* * *

The day before the funeral, a police officer came to speak with Dovid. They reported that the man that they had shot at Paul's house was a nurse, but had not worked in the field for some time. He had apparently spent some time in various psychiatric institutions. The police were not immediately concerned with Alon's safety, although Dovid did raise the issue of the attack the hospital, committed by a different man. The police agreed to tag Alon in case of a problem, and to check on him and Dovid daily. Few people now knew where they were staying, anyway.

* * *

The funeral was on a Monday. Alon put on his suit, with a rip in the lapel. Dovid drove him to the cemetery. There was to be an open air service, with all of Paul's friends. Getting ready, Alon became more stricken with grief than he had been so far.

"Argh! I can't do it!" he cried, and Dovid came in to his room.

"What is the matter?"

Alon was crying. "It's the braces. They make my pants stick out, and I can't stand still in them without falling down."

"Don't fret, Alon, I have an idea."  
Dovid vanished and returned with an old walking stick. It was a little too long for Alon, so he held it sticking out at an angle; but it did the job.

"How's that?" asked Dovid.

"Better," sobbed Alon, still sobbing.

"I know it isn't easy, Alon," said Dovid. This was a very difficult situation. The child had lost both his parents, and now his adopted father in a violent situation. Were he a different child, perhaps he would be easier to convince that everything would be all right. But he was not, and Dovid did not know what to say. He simply held out his arms and hugged Alon tightly. With such a great intellect, Alon was ahead of himself. Only time can bring the emotional maturity to handle something like this, and he had been through so much already; even now he was still not physically mended. Dovid prayed that he would come out of it intact.

Alon gathered himself, and pulled away from Dovid. He gave him a weak smile and dried his eyes on his handkerchief. His glasses had steamed up, so he wiped those, too.  
"Ready?" asked Dovid.

Alon nodded. Together they went out to the car. As they went down the front path, Alon stopped to pick up a small pebble.

The journey cheered Alon up. The car they were using belonged to the gentleman whose house they were staying in. It was from the twentieth century, with knobs and levers all over the place. It made a loud noise as it started. Alon lost himself looking at the systems in the car, and wondering how they worked.

* * *

When they arrived at the cemetery entrance, there were already many people standing around. Alon could not move quickly, so Dovid picked him up and carried him to the gates. They stood in silence, waiting for Paul to arrive. When he did, they stood back. Alon was not really sure what to do, and became nervous. Fortunately, Pierre was on hand. He and the other pall bearers got into their positions, and Alon was to follow behind. Dovid walked next to him, with his hand under on of his arms to him some extra help. They walked slowly, in silence, to the grave.

The ceremony was short. There was a simple blessing, and some readings from Paul's friends. Alon did not say anything. He did not feel that he could. Pierre finished the readings.

"Paul was a dear friend to me. He was never too busy to listen, or to give you a hand, or help you finish a bottle of Bordeaux. He was the kind of man you knew you could count on. He would do anything for anyone. He did work for charities, youth groups, you name it. He gave up his summers to give lessons to gifted kids. He couldn't do enough for them. That's where he met his son, Alon. He saw a bad situation and stepped right in to make it better. He loved Alon as his own son, right from the beginning. He helped out his students with their personal problems, bought books for the ones that couldn't afford them. Wherever he could see he could make a difference, even a tiny one, he did. What a better place the world would be if we were all like Paul. It does not surprise many of us that Paul died giving his life for another. Paul didn't have a family, but he was all of our friends, our fathers, our brothers, our confidantes. He will be missed by everyone who ever met him."

Pierre had tears rolling down his cheeks by the time he finished. Alon was not crying, but he had been hanging on his every word. He was very sad; there was so much he did not know about Paul, and now perhaps he never would, but this was balanced by the relief at the opportunity he had to attend the funeral; something he had been unable to do for his parents. He was in pain now, as his legs were being held up by the braces but they were not accustomed to it. But Alon grinned and bore it. He followed the others and cast soil on to Paul's coffin as it lay in the bottom of the grave. As he passed it, he placed his pebble on the ground next to the headstone. He whispered a prayer to himself, and then Dovid helped him to stand back from the crowd, and together they watched everyone pay their last respects.

There was to be a wake at the university, and Dovid carried Alon back to the old car. He placed Alon into the passenger seat and went around to the driver's side. As he passed the boot, a man approached him.

"Excuse-moi, quelle heure est-il?"

Dovid turned to face the man, not really having heard the question, although he did speak French. His smile as he turned around was met by a hard blow to the chin. Dovid fell down on the road, completely helpless. His assailant ran around to the driver door.


	31. On the Rails

Chapter 31

Alon quickly realised what had happened and sank down in his seat. He hit the central locking and all the doors locked. He was hyperventilating and felt dizzy. The man outside was waving a scanner over the door trying to unlock it, but it was not working. This car did not have coded locks. Alon shut his eyes.

"Start the car!"

Alon opened his eyes. He was hearing a voice but there was nobody else there. He wished hard that someone would com to his rescue.

"Start the car!"

Alon knew the voice. It was his father's. There was no time for an internal spiritual debate about whether it was a real voice, or his imagination. So Alon pressed the start button. Dovid had the key card in his pocket, so he must have been close enough for it to activate the controls. Alon pressed the start button and the engine sprang to life. The man outside was now trying to kick through the window.

"Drive!" said the voice.

Now Alon did not think to question it. He dragged himself across to the driver's side, and pulled the lever into drive. He pressed the accelerator. The car leapt to life. Very quickly, however, Alon realised he could not take his foot off the accelerator. His legs were too weak and the braces too strong. He was lucky it was a straight road, as he had gone almost a kilometre at about 60 kph before he grabbed his leg with his hands and pulled it off the accelerator. He coasted to a halt. He managed to attract the attention of a passer by, and asked them to call the police, before passing out.

* * *

"Alon! Wake up!"

Alon groaned.

"Come on!"

Alon opened his eyes. He narrowed them to focus, and saw Dovid standing over him. He groaned and rubbed his temples. "Where am I?"

"At the police station," said Dovid. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." Alon sat up. "How long have we been here?"

"An hour."  
"What happened? Are you all right?"

Dovid had a bruise going from his chin to his ears across both cheeks. "I'll be fine. It's a five-alarm headache, though."

Alon smiled weakly, and nodded. "Are we going home?"  
Dovid sighed. "They don't know what to do with you, Alon. I mean, with us."  
"What do you mean?"  
"The man who attacked us today was a known associate of an international criminal organisation. Now they think that the man who shot Paul was also involved with it. I'm not going to lie to you, Alon. They're after us."  
Alon nodded, and looked solemn. "What do we do?"  
"Like I say, they're looking for a place for us to go, to be safe. God willing, it will all be well."

Alon hung his head.

"So what do we do now?"

"We wait. We can't leave the police station for the moment. Who knows what connections these people have."

Unfortunately for the pair, the safest place in the station was the detention cells, and that is where the two were forced to spend the night.

* * *

Alon prayed hard that night. He himself was not afraid of dying. He had come so close to it now that it did not hold much fear for him, and although he tried to stamp it down, there was a part of him that did wish for it all to end. He had lost so much and so many that he had loved, and his belief in heaven made him want to join them. He had always been sure that there was justice in the world. Of course, bad things happen to good people, and it is always a great shame when it happens. But bad things were happening now to good people because of their association with him. He prayed again. He did not want to bring harm or trouble to anyone else. He prayed hard for the rapid return of his strength. At least then he might not need to have people around him all the time.

The more Alon thought about it the more despondent he became. He did possess the knowledge these people were after, but he could not give it to them. If it were to fall in to the wrong hands, there could be global disaster. Terrorist organisations might use the technology. He felt heavily the burden of responsibility for it. And at the same time he so desperately wanted to be rid of it. The wails from the drunks and criminals protesting their innocence in the neighbouring cells did little for his constitution.

* * *

It was decided that the best thing to do would be to travel to Northern Canada. The remote location would make it very difficult for somebody to locate them easily. A location was to be decided.

"Churchill!" said Alon.

"What?" asked the police officer.

"Churchill, Manitoba."  
"I know where Churchill is."  
"I have some friends there. My friend Adrian lives there and his father is a marine biologist."  
The police officer look confused. But Churchill was remote, and they really did not have any better ideas. "Okay," she said. She started fumbling on the desk for pen and paper.

"I am sure I can find the details. Have you a secure phone?" asked Dovid.

He was pointed in the right direction and started trying to contact Matthew Bissett.

* * *

It was all arranged. It was decided that the monorail would be the best way to get there. They did not keep records of passenger details, so they could travel inconspicuously. Even better, Dovid could help Alon on to a train easily, while it was a little more complicated for planes or helijets. There were no trains until the next day, but the police found a computer, and Alon happily spent time on it while they waited, and spent another night in the cells. Alon could now hardly sleep for the excitement. He was to see Adrian again, and God knows, he needed a friend.

They boarded a train for Winnipeg, and then another to Churchill. The journey took all day, and relatively little was said. Alon had put his troubles on hold for the excitement of seeing Adrian. They only began to talk about three hours from Churchill.

"I told Matthew about Paul."

"Oh!" said Alon. He had not thought to even try to call him. "Is he okay?"  
"He's pretty upset, but he understands."

Alon nodded. He sensed there was more, worse news to come.

"I can't stay with you in Churchill, Alon."

Alon stared, wide eyed. "What?"  
"I have a family too, I need to get back to them. And I have work to do."  
Alon said nothing. Of course, he did not expect Dovid to sacrifice his world for him, nor had he really expected him to stay, but it was a bit of a shock.

"I understand," said Alon.

"There's another reason," said Dovid. "Whoever wants what you have wants it badly. They may never stop trying to find you. I am another link in the chain. So you are better off away from me."  
Alon nodded and smiled thinly.  
"Besides, it's freezing up here!" said Dovid, trying to lighten the mood. He could see the tears in Alon's eyes. "You like these folks, and they like you. You can nearly walk on your own now, too. You can get back to normal up here."

"I know. Thank you." Alon offered his hand and the rabbi shook it. He smiled and turned to look out of the window.

A steward came down the aisle. He was dressed in a white jacket and bow tie. Alon watched him. It was at that moment he realised that they were now the only people in the carriage. He heard a loud crack, and was aware that the train was slowing. Out of the window, he could see the train speeding away. The car had been separated from the train.


End file.
